>••*•»•*« 
sssssssss 


IdLIS 

:^TR 


MARRIED    IN    HASTE, 


M 


BER 


AUTHOR   OF    "  DORA    THORNE,"     "  BEYOND    PARDON," 
"  REPENTED  AT  LEISURE,"  ETC.,  ETC. 


3  r 


CHICAGO: 

GEO.  W.  OGILVIE, 
230  LAKE  STREET, 


MARRIED    IN    HASTE 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  Christmas-eve  that  brought  happiness  to  so  many 
thousands  of  homes  brought  to  me  nothing  more  than  a  long 
uncomfortable  journey  and  the  novelty  of  a  first  situation ; 
for  I  had  traveled  from  London  to  the  lake  country  ;  and, 
when  I  reached  the  station  at  Ulladale,  my  senses  were 
numbed  with  cold  and  frost. 

Evidently  some  mistake  had  been  made  as  to  the  time  of 
the  trains,  for  the  carriage  which  I  had  expected  would  be 
sent  to  meet  me  had  not  yet  arrived.  The  station  was  a 
small  one,  and  there  were  few  people  about.  The  wind  wailed 
dismally  round  the  building.  The  open  archway  that  led 
from  the  station  to  the  road  looked  like  a  black  yawning 
abyss.  Anything  was  better  than  remaining  there,  so  I  re- 
solved to  fill  up  the  time  that  I  must  wait  in  walking  down 
the  road  that  led  to  Ulladale.  In  the  distance  was  the  pretty 
town,  the  church-spires  of  which  stood  out  tall  and  white. 
Just  as  I  reached  the  end  of  the  road,  the  moon  came  from 
behind  the  clouds  and  cast  a  silvery  gleam  over  the  snow-clad 
scene,  and  then  it  was  exceedingly  beautiful. 

I  leaned  over  the  stile  to  gaze  at  it.  The  moonlight  kissed 
the  white  spires,  the  snow-covered  meadows,  the  distant 
houses.  From  the  bare  hedges  and  the  branches  of  the  trees 
hung  great  icicles  which  glittered  like  diamonds.  The  red 
berries  shone  on  the  holly  trees,  the  tall  dark  firs  stood  out 
in  martial  array,  the  stars  shone  in  the  night-sky. 

Oh,  beautiful  Christmas-eve !  Something  stirred  in  my 
heart  and  brought  tears  to  my  eyes  when  the  bells  began  to 
ring  and  the  soft  sweet  chime  came  to  me  across  the  snow. 


I  thought  of  the  happy  homes  that  Christmas  moon  was  shin- 
ing on,  of  devoted  husbands  and  wives,  fond  fathers  and 
mothers,  merry  children  home  from  school,  of  happy  lovers, 
kindly  friends.  I  looked  up  to  the  sky,  and  I  prayed  that 
Heaven  would  send  some  one  to  love  me.  Every  one  expects 
a  gift  at  Christmas-time,  and  that  was  what  I  asked  from 
Heaven.  That  was  my  prayer  on  Christmas-eve,  and  my 
story  will  tell  how  it  was  granted. 

I  returned  to  the  station  just  as  the  hour  was  striking,  and 
found  that  the  carriage  had  arrived  during  my  absence.  The 
coachman  touched  his  hat  as  I  came  up  the  platform.  There 
was  no  other  being  in  sight. 

"  The  carriage  for  Miss  Forster,  from  Ullamere,"  he  said. 
And  a  few  minutes  later  I  was  on  my  way  to  the  Hall. 

It  seemed  as  though  the  stars  were  lighting  me  to  a  fresh 
life,  as  though  the  snow-fringed  branches  of  the  tall  trees 
were  beckoning  to  me.  I  felt  a  weird  sensation  in  driving 
alone  through  this  silent  country  on  Christmas-eve. 

The  moon  shone  out  with  a  whiter,  brighter  light.  I  saw 
that  we  were  driving  through  a  beautiful  park.  The  water 
lying  under  the  trees  was  completely  frozen  ;  the  evergreens 
stood  out  distinct  and  clear  ;  and  the  weird  music  of  the  wind, 
as  it  stirred  the  great  trees,  sounded  as  though  the  very  spirit 
of  Christmas  were  abroad. 

A  sudden  curve,  the  ripple  of  a  fountain  not  yet  frozen, 
the  cry  of  a  startled  bird,  the  deep  baying  of  a  hound,  and 
we  were  driving  up  a  fine  avenue  of  chestnut-trees.  The 
moon  revealed  a  noble  pile  of  buildings.  I  see  the  picture 
now  as  I  saw  it  then.  Ullamere  was  a  large,  handsome  resi- 
dence, built  in  the  Italian  style,  with  pillared  porch  and  bal- 
cony, and  stately  wings.  A  lawn  sloped  down  to  the  very 
edge  of  the  lake,  and  the  park  lay  behind  the  house.  No 
ruddy  light  shone  from  the  windows ;  all  was  dark  and 
gloomy.  It  struck  me  vaguely,  as  I  stood  outside,  that  the 
house  held  a  secret.  No  answer  came  to  the  first  ring  ;  the 
second  brought  an  old  gray-haired  man,  who  opened  the  door 
cautiously,  it  seemed  to  me.  In  the  large  entrance-hall  there 
were  no  evergreens,  no  firelight,  no  mistletoe-bough,  only 
gloom  and  deep  shadows.  A  small  lamp  glimmered  some- 
where in  the  depths  of  the  hall.  1  felt  chilled. 

"Miss  Forster,"  said  the  butler,  "my  lady  is  expecting 
you.  Will  you  step  this  way  ? " 


He  led  the  way  to  the  library,  where  a  fire  burned  in  the 
grate  and  a  lighted  lamp  stood  on  the  table.  As  for  any  sign 
of  Christmas,  I  might  as  well  have  looked  for  roses  in 
December. 

"  I  will  tell  Lady  Culmore  that  you  are  here,  he  said. 

He  went  away,  leaving  me  alone.  What  a  silent  house  this 
was  !  No  sound  disturbed  it,  not  even  the  opening  or  shut- 
ting of  a  door  ;  and  the  silence  appeared  to  grow  more  and 
more  intense.  It  seemed  as  though  an  atmosphere  of  wrong- 
doing filled  the  house.  I  turned  up  the  lamp.  The  light 
fell  on  handsome  marble  busts,  on  well-lined  bookcases,  on 
massive  bronze  ornaments,  on  a  few  choice  pictures. 

Presently  the  door  opened,  and  the  gray-haired  butler  an- 
ounced  "  Lady  Culmore."  I  heard  the  rustle  of  a  silken 
dress  ;  a  faint  odor,  as  of  heliotrope,  was  wafted  to  me.  As 
I  saw  her  then  I  shall  see  her  until  I  die.  She  came  in  with 
a  quiet,  graceful  movement.  Her  dress  was  of  rich  ruby  vel- 
vet, while  fine  lace  shrouded  the,  white  shoulders  and  the 
rounded  arms.  She  was  beautiful  as  a  queen  ;  and,  if  ever  a 
woman's  face  told  a  story,  her  face  did.  I  read  in  it  power, 
passion,  terrible  repression — the  outcome  of  an  unnatural 
life ;  I  read  wistfulness  and  fear.  It  was  the  loveliest,  but 
the  strangest  face  I  had  ever  seen.  One  peculiarity  of  it 
was  that,  when  she  was  not  speaking  or  smiling,  her  lips 
became  very  pale. 

She  came  to  me  with  outstretched  hands,  but  without  a 
smile,  without  a  gleam  of  welcome  in  her  eyes.  She  was 
like  a  fair  marble  statue,  yet  what  a  depth  of  feeling  lay  in 
the  dark  blue  eyes  ! 

"  You  have  had  a  long,  cold  journey,  Miss  Forster,"  she 
said.  "  It  is  eight  o'clock,  and  we  are  just  going  to  take 
tea.  Mrs.  Harper  shall  show  you  to  your  room,  and  then 
you  can  join  us." 

Not  to  save  my  life  could  I  have  refrained,  as  I  raised  my 
eyes,  filled  with  tears,  to  her  face,  from  saying — 

"  This  is  not  much  like  Christmas." 

And,  if  the  words  had  been  so  many  barbed  arrows  that 
pierced  her  heart,  she  could  not  have  started  more.  It  was 
as  though  some  long-lost  voice  had  spoken  to  her. 

"  Is  it  Christmas-eve  ?  "  she  replied.  "  I  had  forgotten 
it." 

"  You  forgot  that  it  was  Christmas-eve  !  "  I  cried,  wonder- 


ing  to  myself  what  manner  of  woman  this  was.  "  Why," 
I  continued,  "  the  whole  world  remembers  and  loves  Christ- 
inas ! " 

"  I  loved  it  once,"  she  remarked. 

"  And  why  not  now  ? "  I  asked,  without  thinking  that  per- 
haps my  words  were  abrupt. 

"Now?"  she  answered  dully.  "Oh,  now  is  quite  differ- 
ent !  "  She  looked  confused,  as  though  she  hardly  knew 
how  to  answer  me.  Then,  seeing  the  tears  rain  down  my 
face,  she  added,  "  You  must  try  to  be  happy.  It  was  kind  of 
you  to  come.  You  will  find  Ullamere  a  beautiful  place,  but 
very  dull." 

She  shuddered  as  she  spoke  :  and  I  noticed  that  her 
voice  was  sweet  and  clear,  but  sadly  deficient  in  the  sweet 
intonations  that  speak  of  hope  and  love.  I  believe  that  I 
was  almost  frightened  by  her. 

"  You  are  fatigued  with  your  long  journey,"  she  said,  see- 
ing that  my  tears  still  fell. 

"  Yes  ;  but  it  is  not  that,"  I  replied.  "  I  thought  Christ- 
mas was  so  beautiful  in  England." 

"  So  it  is,"  she  replied ;  and  she  clasped  her  white  hands 
together.  "  But  not  here — not  here  ;  we  forget  it.  It  must 
seem  strange  to  you." 

I  had  read  such  beautiful  stories  of  Christmas-eve  in 
England — of  the  holly  and  mistletoe,  and  of  Christmas  dec- 
orations. I  remembered  my  prayer  at  the  stile  under  the 
snow-fringed  trees. 

"  I  have  asked  for  a  Christmas  gift,"  I  said  impulsively. 

"  What  have  you  asked  for  ?  "  she  inquired. 

"  I  was  looking  at  the  blue  sky,  watching  the  stars,  and  I 
asked  that  Heaven,  as  my  Christmas  gift,  might  give  me 
some  one  to  love  me." 

"  Some  one  to  love  you  !  "  she  echoed.  Her  face  flushed, 
her  eyes  sparkled,  her  hands  trembled.  "  Ask  for  a  sword  to 
pierce  your  heart,  for  a  deadly  serpent  to  poison  you,  for 
lightning  to  strike  you  dead,  if  you  will ;  but  never  ask  for 
any  one  to  love  you — never  for  any  one  whom  you  can  love !  " 

And  the  next  minute  she  was  gone. 

A  kindly,  comely  woman,  whom  I  knew  afterward  as  Mrs. 
Harper  the  housekeeper,  came  to  me  a  few  minutes  later. 

"  Will  you  go  to  your  room,  miss  ?  "  she  asked.  "  You 
must  be  tired  and  cold." 


Yet,  though  the  wintry  wind  had  pierced  me  and  the  frost 
had  seized  my  hands,  my  heart  was  colder  still ;  and  I  longed 
for  the  happy  sunny  France  that  I  had  left. 

We  went  through  long  winding  passages.  Mrs.  Harper 
carried  a  wax-taper,  which  made  the  darkness  seem  all  the 
more  profound.  The  wind  moaned  fitfully. 

"  What  a  dreary  house  !  "  I  cried  involuntarily.  "  Why 
do  you  not  have  it  lighted  ?  " 

"  There  is  no  gas  nearer  than  Ulladale,"  she  replied,  "  and 
that  is  quite  five  miles  away.  Besides,  no  one  cares  about 
having  the  place  lighted  up." 

"  No  one  cares  !  "  I  repeated.  "  What  an  extraordinary 
thing  !  I  thought  every  one  liked  to  make  a  house  cheer- 
ful." 

"  All  the  gas  that  could  be  made  in  the  world  would  not 
render  this  house  cheerful,"  said  Mrs.  Harper.  "  There  is  a 
shadow  over  it." 

"  The  shadow  of  what  ?  "  I  asked,  with  a  pale  face  a:;d 
fast-beating  heart. 

"  No  one  knows.  I  can  see  the  shadow  and  feel  it,  but 
I  cannot  tell  what  it  is.  You  are  young,  Miss  Forster,  and 
you  must  try  to  be  cheerful.  Do  not  let  the  gloom  oppress 
you.  That  is  the  bell  for  tea." 

I  looked  at  my  few  plain  and  simple  dresses. 

"  I  am  ashamed  to  go  down  in  one  of  these,"  I  said. 
"  Are  there  any  visitors  ?  " 

She  laughed  a  dreary  laugh. 

"  Visitors  !     No  ;  they  seldom  come  here." 

"  But  Lady  Culmore  was  so  superbly  dressed  ! "  I  cried. 

The  housekeeper  looked  at  me  earnestly. 

"  In  all  the  country,"  she  replied,  "  there  is  no  one  who 
dresses  so  magnificently  as  my  lady  ;  but  she  will  never  get 
that  which  she  dresses  for — never." 

I  took  out  a  dress  of  plain  black  silk  and  some  holly- 
berries. 

"  I  will  not  forget  it  is  Christmas,  if  every  one  else  in  the 
house  does  !  "  I  cried,  as  I  placed  a  spray  of  red-berried  holly 
in  my  hair  and  one  in  the  bodice  of  my  dress. 

A  few  minutes  afterward  I  stood  at  the  drawing-room  door 
with  a  beating  heart.  There  was  a  death-like  silence  within  ; 
the  wind  was  wailing  outside,  the  shadows  were  deepening 
and  gathering  around  me.  I  took  courage,  opened  the  door, 


and  found  myself  in  a  magnificent  room,  lofty  and  beautifully 
decorated.  The  ceiling  was  painted  ;  there  were  fine  pictures, 
a  few  rare  statues,  jardinieres  filled  with  costly  exotics, 
luxurious  furniture  ;  altogether  it  was  a  most  charming  apart- 
ment. It  was  lighted  by  wax-tapers.  Lady  Culmore  was 
seated  before  the  ruddy  fire. 

Come  in,  Miss  Forster,"  she  said.  "  You  will  be  glad  to 
have  some  tea,  I  am  sure." 

A  cozy  little  table  was  drawn  to  the  fire  ;  a  silver  tea- 
service,  with  cups  and  saucers  of  Sevres  china,  was  placed  on 
it.  I  took  a  seat,  and  then  Lady  Culmore  forgot  all  about 
me.  She  sat  looking  into  the  fire,  holding  in  her  white  hand  a 
fan  of  delicate  feathers.  Evidently  she  saw  pictures  in  the 
fire  which  I  could  not  see,  she  read  stories  there  which  I 
could  not  read. 

After  a  short  interval,  a  servant  brought  in  a  silver  stand 
and  kettle,  and  placed  them  on  the  table. 

"  Sir  Rudolph  is  coming,  my  lady,"  he  said. 

I  had  thought  her  cold  and  without  emotion,  but  I  saw 
now  that  I  had  been  mistaken.  Her  face  changed.  The 
peculiar  pallor  of  the  lips  disappeared,  and  the  mask  as  of  stone 
fell ;  there  was  the  flushed,  passionate,  beautiful  face  of  a  living, 
loving  woman.  I  noticed  that  she  placed  one  hand  over  her 
heart,  as  though  she  would  still  its  beating.  I  have  never 
seen  such  pain,  such  passion,  such  intensity  of  longing  in  any 
human  eyes  as  I  read  in  hers. 

Again  the  door  opened,  and  Sir  Rudolph  entered.  I 
forgot  at  first  to  look  at  him  in  the  wonder  I  felt  at  her.  The 
agony  in  the  eyes  of  a  frightened  bird  when  the  snake  first 
fixes  it  would  give  a  faint  idea  of  the  expression  in  hers;  yet 
in  them  shone  a  gleam  of  love — unutterable,  despairing  love. 
But,  when  he  spoke,  I  looked  at  him.  He  was  not  a  model 
of  manly  beauty ;  but  he  had  a  face  that,  once  seen,  could 
never  be  forgotten.  He  was  tall,  with  the  erect  figure,  the 
broad  shoulders,  the  muscular  limbs  that  distinguish  a  true 
Englishman.  The  chief  charms  of  his  face  lay  in  his  mouth 
and  eyes.  The  mouth  was  tender,  proud,  and  firm,  its 
graceful  lines  unhidden  by  the  dark  mustache.  I  could  never 
describe  the  beauty,  the  power,  and  the  pathos  of  his  eyes. 
When  they  looked  at  me,  they  were  kindly,  clear,  and  bright ; 
when  they  fell  on  Lady  Culmore's  face,  I  read  aversion  and 
fear  in  them. 


Sir  Rudolph  held  out  his  hand,  and  bade  me  welcome  to 
Ullamere.  His  greeting  was  a  thousand  times  more  kindly 
than  Lady  Culmore's  had  been.  He  said  that  he  hoped  I 
should  not  find  it  dull — that  he  spent  his  own  time  in  reading, 
boating,  fishing,  and  rambling  over  the  hills.  And  all  the 
time  he  spoke  his  wife's  eyes  were  fixed  on  him  with  the  look 
of  a  frightened  bird. 

We  sat  down,  and  if  ever  there  was  a  study,  these  two, 
husband  and  wife,  presented  one.  I  see  the  whole  scene  so 
plainly — the  magnificent  room,  with  the  pale  clear  light  from 
the  wax-tapers,  the  glow  of  the  fire  as  it  fell  on  the  pictures 
and  statues,  the  bloom  and  fragrance  of  the  hothouse  flowers. 
I  shall  never  forget  how  the  firelight  fell  on  the  rich  dress 
and  jewels,  the  fair  hair  and  beautiful  face  of  Lady  Culmore, 
and  on  the  dark  head  and  noble  face  of  Sir  Rudolph.  Had 
she  donned  the  rich  robe  and  gems  to  please  Sir  Rudolph  ? 
If  so,  it  was  indeed  labor  in  vain.  After  the  first  half-shrink- 
ing look,  his  eyes  were  carefully  averted  from  her.  I  could 
see  that  plainly.  It  was  not  careless  indifference  ;  it  was  that 
he  would  not  look  at  her.  When  he  spoke  to  me,  his  eyes 
met  mine  with  a  frank  open  expression.  If  Lady  Culmore 
addressed  him,  they  were  studiously  fixed  on  anything  but 
her. 

As  tea  proceeded,  the  wonder  to  me  grew  greater.  When 
Sir  Rudolph  addressed  his  wife,  he  seemed  quite  unconscious 
of  the  constraint  and  coldness  that  came  into  his  voice,  as  she 
seemed  quite  unconscious  of  the  pleading  that  came  into  hers. 
There  was  no  attempt  at  conversation  between  them.  I  could 
not  say  that  Sir  Rudolph  was  wanting  in  civility  or  attention 
to  the  beautiful  woman  who  looked  at  him  with  such  passion- 
ate, entreating,  love-lit  eyes ;  but  he  did  only  just  what 
was  needful — no  more.  There  was  more  below  the  surface, 
unless  I  was  greatly  mistaken.  I  read  shrinking  aversion, 
something  more  than  dislike — loathing  even  on  his  part  ;  on 
hers,  love  that  was  painful  in  its  passionate  entreaty.  Al- 
together I  felt  that  I  was  in  a  atmosphere  of  mystery.  The 
gloom  of  the  house,  the  silence  that  reigned  in  the  splendid 
rooms,  the  curious  aspect  of  husband  and  wife,  all  confirmed 
the  idea. 

One  little  incident  impressed  me  much.  Lady  Culmore 
wore  a  very  handsome  diamond  bracelet ;  the  gold  of  the  set- 
ting of  one  of  the  stones  was  slightly  damaged,  and  hurt  her 


arm,  She  raised  it  suddenly  with  a  little  cry  of  pain,  and 
went  over  to  her  husband, 

"  Rudolph,"  she  said,  "  will  you  see  to  this  bracelet  for 
me  ?  "  And  she  looked  at  him  with  eyes  so  full  of  love  that 
my  wonder  was  that  he  did  not  embrace  her  on  the  spot  and 
kiss  the  lovely  pleading  face. 

She  held  out  her  beautifully  rounded  white  arm  to  him 
and  showed  him  the  little  red  mark  caused  by  the  broken 
gold.  In  doing  so  her  hand  touched  him.  It  was  acciden- 
tal, I  believe  ;  but  I  shall  never  forget  the  incident.  It  was 
over  in  a  moment ;  but,  while  that  moment  lasted,  the  scene 
was  terrible.  His  faced  changed  ;  fierce  anger  flamed  from 
his  eyes.  He  shook  the  white  hand  from  him  as  though  it 
had  been  a  viper. 

"  You  forget ! "  he  cried,  in  a  voice,  so  cold  and  hard  that 
I  recognized  it  with  difficulty ;  and,  shuddering,  white,  trem- 
bling, she  shrunk  away  from  him. 

"  Good  night,  Miss  Forester,"  said  Sir  Rudolph  abruptly. 
"  I  hope  you  will  make  yourself  as  happy  as  you  can." 

He  was  gone  before  I  had  time  to  reply. 

Lady  Culmore  stood  quite  still  for  a  few  moments  ;  then 
she  tore  the  jewels  from  her  hair,  from  her  neck,  from  her 
arms,  and  dashed  them  upon  the  ground. 

"  Am  I  so  hateful,  so  horrible,"  she  cried,  "  that  he  will 
not  look  at  me,  that  I  may  not  touch  him  ?  Oh,  Heaven, 
am  I  so  hateful,  so  loathsome  as  that  ? " 

Suddenly  she  remembered  my  presence,  and  looked  at  me 
with  a  mild,  passionate  despair  that  touched  my  very  heart. 
I  went  to  pick  up  the  beautiful  gems  strewn  upon  the  ground. 
I  laid  them,  a  glittering,  magnificent  mass,  on  the  table.  She 
came  up  to  them  with  a  half-shamed  face. 

"  How  passionate  I  am,  Miss  Forester ! "  she  said. 
"  What  can  you  think  of  me  ? " 

"  I  have  had  no  time  to  think  at  all  yet,"  I  replied. 

Then  she  walked  to  one  of  the  large  mirrors,  and  stood 
before  it  for  some  minutes  in  silence. 

"Miss  Forester,  come  here,"  she  said,  after  she  had 
looked  long  and  earnestly  at  herself. 

I  went  to  her,  and  we  stood  side  by  side.  She  regarded 
me  critically. 

"  You  are  beautiful,"  she  said  slowly.  "  You  are  dark  as 
the  daughters  of  sunny  Spain,  and  your  eyes  are  like  dusky 


velvet — no,  they  are  like  purple  heartsease  ;  but  you  are  not 
so  beautiful  as  I  am."  She  turned  to  me  fiercely  and  clutched 
my  hands.  "  Tell  me,"  she  cried — "  you  have  had  time 
to  judge — tell  me — am  I  not  a  woman  whom  any  man  could 
love  ? " 

"  Yes,"  I  replied  quickly,  half  frightened  by  her  strange 
manner. 

"  Look  at  my  arm,"  she  continued.  "  If  any  other  man 
had  been  in  his  place,  he  would  have  kissed  it;  and  he  flung 
it  from  him  !  " 

I  have  no  time  to  answer.  The  footman  came  in  to  clear 
the  table,  and  I  went  back  to  my  room. 


CHAPTER  II. 

WHAT  manner  of  house,  what  manner  of  people  were 
these  ?  What  was  wrong  under  this  roof  ?  What  was  the 
shadow  where  all  should  have  been  bright  ?  I  had  been  tired 
before,  but  the  mystery  and  novelty  had  so  excited  and 
bewildered  me  that  I  could  not  rest,  I  could  not  sleep. 
Surely  no  one  had  ever  spent  a  stranger  Christmas-eve  than 
this. 

I  drew  aside  the  hangings.  Ah  me,  the  sweet  white 
world  that  lay  outside,  the  beauty  of  the  Christmas  night-sky 
and  golden  stars  !  I  could  not  hear  the  bells,  although  I  knew 
there  would  chime  until  past  midnight ;  and  I  knew  how  the 
music  of  them  would  rise  and  fall  over  the  trees,  would  die 
away  across  the  snow.  I  should  have  wept  in  sheer  des- 
perate pity  for  my  own  loneliness  had  it  not  been  that  my 
thoughts  were  so  deeply  engrossed  with  the  mystery  of  Ulla- 
mere. 

I  went  to  sleep  at  last,  thinking  of  the  beautiful  face  of  the 
wife,  of  the  noble  face  of  the  husband,  wondering  what 
shadow,  what  sorrow  lay  between  them. 

Christmas  morning  dawned  bright  and  beautiful.  I  drew 
near  the  window  and  looked  out  in  wonder  and  delight. 
There  lay  the  mere,  known  as  Ulla  Water,  and  the  grounds 
of  the  estate  sloped  down  to  the  very  edge.  It  was  a  beauti- 


10 

ful  lake,  on  which  in  summer  the  water-lilies  slept;  green 
reeds  and  sedges  grew  on  the  banks,  and  in  many  places  the 
boughs  of  the  trees  dipped  into  the  water.  There  was  almost 
every  variety  of  tree  in  the  grounds — copper-beech  and  silver- 
beech,  stately  oak  and  graceful  lime,  trembling  aspen  and 
spreading  walnut,  the  pride  of  the  place  being  a  grand  old 
cedar.  In  its  mantle  of  white  snow,  with  the  sun  shining 
full  upon  it,  the  scene  was  most  striking.  The  robins  were 
flying  about  in  search  of  food,  and  the  laurustinus  was  in  full 
flower.  My  heart  and  spirits  rose.  It  could  not  be  all  mis- 
ery in  such  a  world  as  this,  such  a  beautiful  world,  disfigured 
only  by  man  and  sin  ! 

I  went  down  stairs,  thinking  that,  if  Christmas-eve  were 
forgotten,  surely,  being  Christians,  they  would  remember 
Christmas-day  !  But  again  there  was  no  recognition  of  it — 
no  holly,  no  mistletoe,  no  cheery  voices,  no  laughter,  no 
Christmas  greeting.  The  house  was  as  silent  in  the  morning 
sunshine  as  it  had  been  on  the  previous  night. 

Breakfast  was  served  in  the  dining-room  ;  but  neither  Sir 
Rudolph  nor  his  wife  came  down  to  it.  The  old  butler  told 
me  that  Sir  Rudolph's  breakfast  was  served  to  him  in  his 
study,  and  that  her  ladyship  took  hers  in  her  own  room. 

There  was  nothing  to  be  done  but  to  make  the  best  of  it, 
to  take  my  breakfast  in  solitude  and  dream  of  the  thousand 
happy  homes  where,  on  Christmas  morning,  the  long-parted 
met  again,  and  there  was  nothing  but  gladness  and  love  ;  and, 
while  the  sunshine  does  not  deepen  the  shadow  in  this 
gloomy  dwelling,  I  can  tell  the  brief  story  of  my  life — how 
and  why  I  came  to  Ullamere. 

My  mother,  Mabel  Averil,  came  of  a  good  old  English 
family.  When  not  more  than  seventeen  she  ran  away  with 
her  drawing-master,  Alic  Forster,  a  young  artist  who  had 
dreams  of  making  a  name  and  winning  fame.  Her  family 
never  forgave  her,  and  my  father  took  her  to  Paris.  There 
he  struggled  long  and  arduously.  The  best  engagement  he 
had  was  as  drawing-master  to  the  pupils  of  Madame  Dude- 
vant,  who  had  a  large  and  fashionable  school  in  the  Champs 
Elyse'es.  He  died  suddenly  of  fever  when  I  was  four  years 
old  ;  and  Madame  Dudevant,  who  was  a  kind-hearted  woman, 
offered  my  mother  a  situation  as  English  teacher  in  her 
school.  My  education  was  to  be  her  recompense — and  truly 
I  received  a  first-class  education.  Had  I  been  the  daughter 


II 

of  a  peeress  instead  of  a  poor  English  teacher,  she  could  not 
have  taken  greater  pains  with  me.  On  my  life  at  the  Parisian 
pension  I  need  not  dwell.  My  mother  died  when  I  was  near- 
ly eighteen  ;  and  after  that  I  could  never  endure  the  place,  it 
was  so  full  of  painful  memories  for  me.  Madame  was  very 
good ;  when  I  told  her  how  unhappy  I  felt,  she  said  the  best 
thing  would  be  for  me  to  take  a  situation  in  England.  She 
answered  an  advertisement  for  a  young  lady  who  spoke 
French,  German,  and  Italian,  and  was  well  acquainted  with 
the  literature  of  the  three  countries.  It  was  essential  that 
she  should  also  be  an  excellent  musician  and  a  good  singer. 
The  salary  proposed  was  most  liberal,  and  a  comfortable 
though  exceedingly  quiet  home  was  offered. 

"  You  will  be  very  fortunate,"  said  Madame  Dudevant  to 
me,  "  if  you  secure  this." 

Very  fortunate  indeed  in  a  great  many  respects !  The 
salary  was  one  hundred  per  annum ;  the  situation  was  that 
of  companion  to  Lady  Culmore,  the  wife  of  Sir  Rudolph 
Culmore  of  Brooke,  residing  now  at  Ullamere,  in  Lancashire. 
Madame  thought  she  had  some  reason  for  congratulating 
me,  and  I  was  only  too  delighted  to  have  an  opportunity  of 
seeing  England,  the  land  I  loved. 

It  was  on  the  twenty-third  of  December  that  I  left  Mad- 
ame Dudevant,  the  school,  and  the  gay  sunny  land  of  France. 
I  was  eighteen  that  same  month.  My  experience  of  life  was 
limited  to  that  of  a  boarding-school.  I  had  a  vague  idea 
that  all  married  people  were  very  happy,  never  having  lived 
with  any.  The  only  men  I  had  seen  were  the  masters  who 
attended  the  school  and  the  fathers  and  brothers  of  the 
boarders. 

So,  young  and  inexperienced,  I  was  plunged  into  what  I 
felt  must  be  the  very  heart  of  a  tragedy. 

Mrs.  Harper  came  in  to  say  that  Lady  Culmore  was  not 
very  well,  and  would  not  be  down  stairs  yet  for  some  time, 
but  that,  if  I  liked,  I  could  have  the  carriage  and  drive  to 
Ulladale  Church. 

"  Will  no  one  else  go  to  church,  Mrs.  Harper  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  No  one  ever  goes  to  church  from  here,"  she  said  sadly. 
"  You  will  find  this  like  very  few  other  houses  in  the  world, 
Miss  Forster  ;  "  and  I  felt  that  her  words  were  true. 

I  told  her  how  glad  I  should  be  to  attend  church.  It  was 
pleasant  to  think  of  going  out  into  the  sunshine  amidst  the 
holly  and  the  MOW, 


12 

Tears  came  to  my  eyes  when  I  heard  the  chime  of 
Christmas  bells  at  last.  There  was  no  lack  of  evergreens  in 
the  church  ;  the  whole  place  seemed  filled  with  them.  Again 
I  prayed  Heaven  for  my  Christmas  gift — some  one  to  love 
me.  I  thought  much,  as  I  knelt  there,  of  the  darkened 
household  whence  no  one  went  to  church,  and  where  they 
had  forgotten  Christmas-eve. 

I  drove  home  again  when  service  was  over,  better  and 
brighter  for  that  my  first  visit  to  an  English  church  ;  but,  as 
I  drew  near  Ullamere,  the  shadow  fell  over  me  again. 

When  I  re-entered  the  house,  I  found  that  Sir  Rudolph 
was  out,  and  the  butler  told  me  that  Lady  Culmore  wished 
to  see  me  in  her  boudoir.  The  boudoir  was  a  pretty  little 
room  leading  from  the  drawing-room  and  looking  right  over 
the  mere.  I  went  to  her  at  once,  feeling  more  curiosity  than 
I  cared  to  express.  I  found  her  very  quiet,  very  sad,  and 
pale.  Evidently  the  terrible  emotion  of  the  preceding  even- 
ing had  exhausted  her.  She  wore  a  dress  of  purple  velvet 
that  showed  her  tall  graceful  figure  to  the  greatest  advan- 
tage. There  was  the  same  deathly  pallor  on  her  face,  the 
same  curious  expression  of  restraint,  fear,  and  longing  in  her 
eyes  as  there  had  been  on  the  previous  night,  she  held  out 
her  hand  to  me,  half  clinging  to  me,  as  I  noticed  afterward 
she  clung  to  any  one  who  was  kind  to  her. 

"  You  have  been  to  church,"  she  said,  with  a  smile.  "  You 
found  something  like  Christmas  there  ?  " 

"  A  beautiful  Christmas,"  I  replied,  "  just  as  I  had 
dreamed  of  it — all  holly  and  laurel  and  mistletoe.  And  I 
love  to  hear  the  old  Christmas  carols." 

"  I  have  not  been  to  church  for  so  long,  I  almost  forget 
what  the  services  are  like,"  she  said. 

"  Do  you  not  think  it  rather  a  pity  not  to  go  to  church  ?  " 
I  ventured  to  ask.  "  It  does  not  matter  whether  our  trouble 
be  of  body  or  of  mind,  there  is  always  comfort  there." 

"  It  would  be  useless  for  me,"  she  said — "  quite  useless." 

"  But  why  ?  "  I  asked. 

And.  her  face  paled  as  she  answered — 

"  If  man  cannot  forgive,  how  can  Heaven  forgive  ? " 

"  It  is  just  the  reverse,"  I  answered.  "  It  matters  little 

about  man  forgiving,  if  Heaven  forgives.  But  you Oh, 

Lady  Culmore,  what  a  strange  thing  for  you  to  say  ?  What 
can  you  have  done  for  such  pardon  to  be  required  ?  ** 


They  were  imprudent  words,  and,  had  I  stopped  to  think, 
I  should  not  have  uttered  them  ;  but  she  did  not  take  them 
amiss.  I  saw  a  faint  motion  of  her  hands,  as  though  she 
would  fain  wring  them,  and  then  she  turned  away. 

"  Lady  Culmore,"  I  said  to  her  presently,  "  if  you  have  a 
few  minutes  to  spare,  I  should  like  to  know  what  my  duties 
are.  Up  to  the  present  time  I  have  done  anything  for  you." 

"Your  duties,"  she  repeated  vaguely — "your  duties  as  a 
companion  to  me  ?  It  was  Sir  Rudolph  who  insisted  that  I 
should  have  a  companion.  I  do  not  know.  He  thought  I 
wanted  some  one  to  be  with  me." 

"  What  shall  I  be  able  to  do  to  help  you  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  I  hardly  know,"  she  replied.  "  Can  you  comfort  me 
when  I  am  most  miserable  ?  " 

"  I  will  do  my  best,"  I  answered  ;  and  she  turned  from 
me  with  a  low  moan. 

"  I  want  comfort,"  she  said — "  comfort  always." 


CHAPTER  III. 

"  I  COULD  not  describe  the  misery  of  Sir  Rudolph's  house- 
hold. What  the  shadow  was  that  lay  over  it  I  was  unable  to 
guess.  Husband  and  wife  were  both  young  and  handsome  ; 
they  had  almost  every  gift  that  Heaven  could  bestow  ; 
nothing  was  wanting,  so  far  as  I  could  see,  to  complete  their 
happiness  ;  yet  they  were  further  apart,  it  seemed  to  me, 
than  if  a  grave  had  lain  between  them — a  thousand  times 
further  apart. 

That  first  Christmas-day  that  I  spent  in  England  will 
never  die  from  my  memory.  We  did  not  see  Sir  Rudolph 
until  dinner-time — seven  o'clock  ;  and  then  it  appeared  to  me 
that  my  remonstrance  respecting  Christmas-day  had  reached 
the  kitchen,  for  the  dinner  comprised  something  in  the  shape 
of  Christmas  fare — a  turkey  and  a  plum  pudding.  Some  one, 
in  a  moment  of  ill-advised  enthusiasm,  had  placed  a  pretty 
little  sprig  of  holly — a  few  glossy  leaves,  with  a  fair  sprink- 
ling of  red  berries — on  the  top  of  the  latter.  Sir  Rudolph 
looked  at  it,  and  then  turned  to  the  butler. 


"  What  is  this  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Holly,  Sir  Rudolph,"  he  replied. 

"  And  why  has  it  been  put  there  ?  "  he  continued. 

"  I  thought — perhaps — Christmas-day,"  he  said,  stam- 
mering. 

"  Take  it  away  !  "  commanded  Sir  Rudolph  sternly. 

And  the  butler,  with  great  perturbation  of  manner  and  a 
crimson  face,  removed  the  unfortunate  sprig  of  holly. 

I  read  the  expression  of  Sir  Rudolph's  face,  and  it  said, 
as  plainly  as  words  could  speak,  "  I  will  have  no  rejoicing,  no 
outward  sign  of  rejoicing,  in  this  house." 

And  in  such  fashion  Christmas  was  celebrated  at  Ulla- 
mere.  I  watched  husband  and  wife,  and  I  was  never  so  com- 
pletely puzzled.  I  could  not  make  out  the  cause  of  disagree- 
ment at  all.  It  was  no  petty  feeling  that  actuated  him, 
that  had  caused  those  lines  on  Sir  Rudolph's  face  ;  one  could 
see  that.  Some  great  deep  emotion  was  at  work  within  him ; 
and  at  times  it  almost  overpowered  him. 

Lady  Culmore  was  beautiful  enough  to  charm  any  man, 
yet  she  evidently  had  no  charm  for  him.  Whatever  the 
mystery  might  be,  I  felt  sure  that  it  was  not  that  he  cared  for 
any  one  else.  There  was  something  so  true,  so  noble  about 
him,  that  no  one  living  could  suspect  him  of  anything  wrong. 
He  was  polite  to  his  wife,  with  a  cold  icy  politeness  that  was 
enough  to  madden  a  woman  who  loved  him. 

He  never  said  an  unnecessary  word  to  her.  "When  he  was 
dining  with  us,  he  did  the  honors  of  the  table.  If,  on  asking 
her  to  partake  of  any  dish,  she  declined,  he  did  not  press  her. 
He  never  repeated  the  invitation.  When  a  bow  or  gesture  of 
any  kind  could  take  the  place  of  words,  it  was  made  to 
do  so.  Any  little  act  of  politeness,  such  as  placing  a  chair 
or  a  footstool  for  her,  was  performed  with  a  formality  and 
coldness  that  made  matters  far  worse  than  if  he  had  omitted 
it.  He  never  went  out  with  her.  He  went  his  way,  she  went 
hers.  He  never  interfered  with  her  arrangements.  If  Lady 
Culmore  asked  him  a  question,  he  replied  to  it  as  briefly  as 
possible.  He  never  offered  any  comment,  any  suggestion  ;  in 
fact,  between  them  a  gulf  lay  wide  and  deep  as  the  grave. 
But  Lady  Culmore,  I  could  see,  had  a  wild,  passionate  ador- 
ation for  her  husband.  She  loved  him  so  well  that  she  trembled 
at  the  sound  of  his  footsteps,  at  the  sound  of  his  voice.  Her 
eyes  were  always  full  of  entreaty,  full  of  pain  and  passion. 


She  suffered  terribly  when  he  was  absent ;  she  suffered  even 
more  when  he  was  present.  In  the  one  case  it  was  an  agony 
of  longing,  in  the  other  an  agony  of  pain.  It  was  the  strangest 
household,  surely,  into  which  any  one  ever  entered.  Sir  Ru- 
dolph occupied  the  west  wing.  His  rooms  were  all  there — 
his  study,  dressing-room,  bedroom,  gunroom — and  overlooked 
the  park.  Lady  Culmore's  rooms  were  in  the  east  wing. 
The  great  drawing-room  and  the  dining-room,  with  one  or 
two  handsomely  furnished  reception-rooms,  were  in  the  centre 
of  the  building. 

There  they  met  on  neutral  ground,  as  it  were,  but  nowhere 
else.  No  messages  ever  passed  between  them.  They  lived 
as  perfect  strangers,  barely  interchanging  the  ordinary  civil- 
ities of  life.  Strange  husband  and  wife  truly!  And  the 
gloom  that  surrounded  them  seemed  to  spread  to  others.  On 
the  faces  of  the  servants  there  was  never  a  smile.  They  went 
about  with  a  hushed  subdued  air  and  movement,  as  though 
they  two  felt  the  weight  of  the  mystery. 

"  Only  on  Sunday  morning  did  we  all  take  breakfast  to- 
gether ;  and  a  most  solemn  and  funerc  al  affair  it  was.  During 
the  week  -Sir  Rudolph  and  Lady  Culmore  never  met  until 
night,  when  we  dined.  He  spent  the  day  in  study  and  sport. 
She — well  it  seemed  to  me  that  her  hours  were  spent  in  a 
fevered  dream.  I  shudder  now  when  I  think  of  them.  She 
was  never  at  ease,  at  rest,  for  five  minutes  together.  She 
would  ask  me  to  play  and  sing  to  or  with  her,  and  then  in  a 
few  minutes  would  rise  and  cry  out  that  it  was  enough,  that 
she  did  not  care  for  it.  She  would  begin  to  translate  some 
foreign  work,  and,  before  she  had  written  many  lines,  it  would 
follow  the  fate  of  the  music. 

"  Come  out  with  me,  Miss  Forster,"  she  would  say.  I 
cannot  bear  the  house  ;  it  stifles  me." 

We  would  go  out,  and  perhaps  before  we  had  reached  the 
park  gates,  she  would  say,  with  a  dreary  sigh — 

"  Let  us  go  back  again.    I -cannot  bear  the  park." 

On  the  beautiful  restless  face  I  never  saw  for  one  moment 
an  expression  of  peace. 

The  evenings  were  perhaps  the  most  dreary  part  of  the 
life  at  Ullamere.  Sir  Rudolph  never  spent  them  with  us. 
When  dinner  was  ended,  he  went  to  his  room,  and  we  saw  no 
more  of  him. 

But  one  evening — ah  me,  what  a  night  that  was  ! — a  most 


i6 

terrible  storm  raged.  The  snow  was  all  washed  away,  the 
rain  fell  in  torrents.  It  beat  against  the  windows  as  though 
it  would  shatter  them.  The  wind  was  something  appalling 
in  its  violence.  We  could  hardly  hear  each  other  speak ; 
trees  were  torn  up  by  the  roots  ;  the  doors  and  windows  rat- 
tled. Once  or  twice  the  great  bell  in  the  stable  rang  without 
rhythm  or  measure.  The  dogs  howled,  the  servants  were 
pale  with  fear. 

As  usual,  Sir  Rudolph  rose  to  quit  the  dining-room.  To 
my  surprise,  Lady  Culmore  went  up  to  him.  This  time  she 
did  not  touch  him  ;  she  did  not  lay  her  hand  upon  his  arm, 
but  she  looked  up  at  him  with  the  most  despairing  eyes  I 
ever  beheld. 

"  Sir  Rudolph,"  she  said — and  her  voice  trembled  with 
the  passion  of  her  earnestness — "  I  pray  you  remain  with  us  ; 
I  am  frightened.  Heaven  is  angry  to-night,  and  I  am  sorely 
afraid.  Stay  with  us." 

For  a  moment  his  eyes  flashed  fire.  Then,  looking  at  the 
white  face,  with  its  quivering  lips  and  frightened  eyes,  the 
fire  died  out,  and  profoundest  pity  took  its  place. 

I  thought  my  prayer  added  to  hers  might  have  effect,  and 
I  said — 

"  The  wind  and  the  rain  would  make  any  one  afraid." 

He  hesitated  half  a  minute.  He  did  not  look  at  his  wife 
again,  but  glanced  at  me. 

"  Are  you  really  alarmed,  Miss  Forster  ? "  he  asked. 

"I  should  be  glad  if  you  would  remain,"  I  replied, 
touched  by  the  wistful  entreaty  of  her  eyes. 

"  Then  I  will,"  he  replied  ;  and  the  relief  on  her  face  was 
beautiful  to  see. 

I  could  not  understand  why  she  cared  so  much  for  his 
presence.  He  never  spoke  to  her  nor  looked  at  her,  never 
went  near  her.  If  she  made  a  remark  to  me,  he  was  studi- 
ously silent ;  yet  I  fancied  that  he  listened  with  some  kind  of 
curiosity  to  all  that  she  said. 

During  that  evening  a  feeling  of  friendship  sprang  up  be- 
tween Sir  Rudolph  and  myself.  He  was  well-bred,  graceful, 
and  accomplished.  To  me  there  was  a  peculiar  charm  in  his 
manner;  there  was  something  more  than  courtesy,  something 
of  chivalry  in  it.  I  found  that  he  was  an  excellent  French 
and  German  scholar.  We  talked  of  Goethe  and  of  Heine,  of 
that  most  graceful  and  original  writer  Fouque,  of  whom  he 


n 

was  an  enthusiastic  admirer.  We  had  a  most  enjoyable  con- 
versation. Several  times  I  tried  my  best  to  draw  Lady  Cul- 
more  into  it ;  but,  when  I  spoke  to  her,  he  remained  silent. 
If  she  made  any  comment,  he  did  not  reply ;  so,  from  sheer 
pity  for  her  embarrassment,  I  refrained  from  appealing  to 
her.  Still  it  seemed  strange.  There  was  the  husband,  in- 
tellectual, a  deep  thinker,  fluent  speaker,  delightful  com- 
panion ;  here  was  the  wife,  fair  and  beautiful  as  the  morning 
star ;  yet  between  them  was  a  gulf  that  no  human  power 
could  bridge. 

I  liked  Sir  Rudolph.  I  could  see  no  fault  in  him ;  but  I 
noticed  one  thing.  '  No  matter  what  we  said,  no  matter  how 
the  subject  engrossed  him,  the  shade  of  sorrow  and  sadness 
never  left  his  face  nor  died  from  his  dark  eyes.  Something 
of  pity  for  the  estranged  wife  filled  my  heart.  Surely  she 
must  suffer  terribly  !  He  was  so  kind,  so  gentle  in  his  man- 
ner to  me — to  her  so  cold,  so  silent.  To  me  it  became  so 
painful  at  last  that  I  said  to  myself  that  anything  would  be 
better  than  for  Sir  Rudolph  to  spend  his  evenings  with  us. 

What  was  the  mystery  ?  Even  as  he  talked  to  me  over 
and  over  again  I  asked  myself  this  question.  I  could  see^no 
fault  in  either,  nor  could  I  see  in  either  any  cause,  any  reason 
for  the  coldness  that  existed. 

It  struck  ten  at  last.  The  storm  had  abated.  Sir  Ru- 
dolph arose. 

"  You  will  not  be  afraid  now,"  he  said,  regarding  me  with 
a  kindly  smile.  "  The  wind  has  fallen,  and  the  rain  has 
ceased." 

I  looked  instinctively  at  Lady  Cuhnore.  His  glance  fol 
lowed  mine  ;  but  the  expression  of  his  face  changed  com- 
pletely as  his  eyes  rested  on  her.  Then,  with  a  bow,  he  was 
gone  ;  and  she  turned  away  with  an  expression  of  mortal  an- 
guish on  her  face. 


i8 


CHAPTER   IV. 

IF  Sir  Rudolph  did  not  like  his  wife,  why  did  he  not  leave 
her?  If  she  had  done  him  any  wrong,  why  did  he  not  punish 
her  ?  If  there  was  anything  against  her  of  which  he  knew, 
why  did  he  not  charge  her  with  it  ?  Any  mode  of  life  must 
be  better  than  this. 

As  the  days  passed  on,  I  saw  no  difference,  no  relaxation 
of  severity  and  coldness  on  his  part,  no  lessening  of  the  pas- 
sionate love  and  bootless  worship  on  hers.  It  would  be 
always  so,  I  supposed.  I  wondered  in  a  dull  kind  of  way  at 
times  whether  I  should  spend  my  whole  life  in  the  contem- 
plation of  a  mystery  that  I  could  not  understand.  Neither 
husband  nor  wife  ever  spoke  of  each  other,  or  I  might  have 
gathered  something  of  the  truth  from  what  they  said.  Sir 
Rudolph  talked  to  me  for  hours  together  on  every  conceiv- 
able subject,  and  I  helped  him  occasionally  with  some  trans- 
lations ;  but  never  once  during  the  time  we  spent  together 
did  he  ever  mention  the  name  of  his  wife.  I  was  but  young, 
and  had  the  natural  curiosity  of  youth.  I  must  say  I  longed 
to  know  the  mystery  of  the  household  in  which  I  lived. 

The  new  year  came  and  was  welcomed  much  as  Christ- 
mas had  been.  At  times  I  asked  myself  if  I  should  remain 
at  Ullamere,  if  I  should  not  go  out  into  the  world,  escape 
from  this  atmosphere  of  melancholy;  but,  odd  to  say, 
estranged  as  they  were,  I  was  growing  most  warmly  attached 
to  both — to  the  wretched  husband  and  the  miserable  wife.  I 
did  not  know  which  I  liked  best  or  which  I  pitied  the 
more. 

January,  with  its  ice  and  snow,  came  to  an  end  ;  Febru- 
ary, with  its  faint  gleams  of  sunshine,  passed ;  March  came  in 
like  a  lion.  It  was  well  for  me  that  the  beauties  of  nature  had 
power  to  soothe  and  charm.  I  watched  eagerly  for  the 
spring,  thinking  that  the  glory  and  tenderness  of  it  must 
surely  in  some  measure  chase  away  the  horrible  gloom.  But 
there  came  an  evening  in  March  the  very  recollection  of 
which  chills  my  heart.  There  was  no  storm,  no  tempest  of 
rain,  but  the  wind  was  blowing  as  I  had  never  heard  it.  I 


'9 

love  the  wind ;  I  love  it,  be  it  the  softest  breath  that  stirs  the 
roses  and  lifts  the  sprays  of  jasmine  or  the  mighty  blast  that 
rends  the  giant  branches  and  bends  the  sturdy  oak. 

That  evening  it  came  in  great  gusts  from  the  hills,  like 
the  roar  of  artillery,  afterward  seeming  to  die  away  on  the 
lakes.  Then  it  rose  again,  and  came  wailing  with  a  long- 
drawn  sobbing  sound  round  the  house.  I  was  not  afraid. 
This  was  what  I  liked  ;  and  when  I  went  to  my  room,  instead 
of  going  to  sleep  like  a  sensible  girl,  I  opened  my  window 
the  better  to  hear  it,  for  my  heart  and  soul  rejoiced  in  it. 

Suddenly  I  heard  the  sound  of  footsteps  in  the  corridor. 
Some  one  tried  the  handle  of  my  door  gently  and  cautiously. 
I  did  not  know  fear,  but  I  must  confess  that  at  the  sound  of 
the  handle  turning  my  heart  beat  fast.  I  went  to  the  door 
and  opened  it..  To  my  surprise,  there  stood  Lady  Culmore, 
wrapped  in  a  long  blue  dressing-gown,  her  hair  hanging  over 
her  shoulders,  her  face  white  as  death,  her  eyes  full  of  fear. 
Even  in  that  moment  I  could  not  help  noticing  the  whiteness 
of  the  hands  that  held  the  taper. 

"I  am  disturbing  you,  Miss  Forster,"  she  said;  "but  I 
am  afraid — oh,  so  sorely  afraid  !  Will  you  come  with  me  ? " 

"  Yes,  Lady  Culmore.  But  what  frightens  you  ? "  I 
asked. 

"  The  wind,  the  wind  !  "  she  replied.  "  I  am  sure  that 
every  lost  soul  is  abroad  to-night  and  wailing  in  it.  Will  you 
come  with  me  ?  " 

She  was  trembling  from  head  to  foot ;  great  drops  of 
agony  stood  on  her  forehead ;  the  hand  that  held  the  wax- 
taper  trembled.  What  was  it  that  made  the  beautiful  face  so 
terrible  to  see  ? 

"  You  need  not  be  frightened,  Lady  Culmore,"  I  said. 
"The  wind  is  always  rough  in  March.  You  are  afraid  of  it. 
I  think  it  beautiful." 

"  It  is  not  the  wind  that  I  hear  in  my  room,"  she  whis- 
pered. "  Oh,  come  ! " 

Without  another  word,  I  took  the  taper  from  her  hand 
and  went  with  her.  When  we  reached  the  room  where  Lady 
Culmore  slept,  I  found  that  all  the  lamps  were  burning.  She 
laid  her  hand  upon  my  arm. 

"  I  want  you  to  listen,"  she  said,  in  a  low,  hoarse  whisper. 
"  Listen  ! " 

As  she  stood  before  me,  with  a  strained  despairing  ex- 


2O 

pression  on  her  face,  wild  terror  in  her  eyes,  and  her  hand 
uplifted,  I  might  have  been  forgiven  some  little  emotion  of 
fear.  The  scene  was  weird  enough. 

"Listen  !  "  she  repeated.  And  then  I  heard  the  soft,  sad 
sob  of  the  wind  at  the  window  dying  away  into  the  faintest 
possible  moan. 

"  What  is  that?"  she  asked  me,  while  a  strong  shudder 
shook  her  whole  frame.  "  Listen  again,  and  tell  me,  for 
Heaven's  sake,  what  is  that?" 

The  dying  wail  of  the  wind  was  followed  by  a  soft  tap 
against  the  window-glass,  so  soft,  so  indistinct,  that  I  could 
hardly  hear  it.  The  sound  came  again  and  again,  until  at 
last  the  terrified  woman  flung  herself  upon  her  knees  with  a 
cry  of  anguish  that  I  shall  never  forget — a  perfect  scream  of 
terror.  It  rings  in  my  ears  even  now  as  I  write. 

"  I  know  what  it  is  !  "  she  cried.  "  You  must  not  let  it 
in  !  Keep  the  window  closed  !  Send  it  away  !  Oh,  Heaven, 
send  it  away !  "  And  she  fell  senseless,  with  her  white 
miserable  face  upon  the  ground. 

I  raised  her,  laid  her  upon  the  couch,  and  went  to  the 
window.  The  moon  shone  on  the  budding  trees  and  on  the 
mere.  I  saw  in  a  moment  that  the  sound  was  caused  by  the 
tapping  of  a  small  spray  of  ivy  against  the  window-glass. 
Having  found  this  out,  I  went  back  to  rouse  and  reassure 
her.  She  lay  just  where  I  had  placed  her,  her  blue  eyes 
open  and  full  of  inexplicable  terror. 

"  Have  you  sent  it  away  !  "  she  asked,  in  a  hoarse  whisper. 

"  There  is  nothing  to  send  away,  Lady  Culmore,"  I  re- 
plied. 

"  Nothing !  "  she  cried.  "  Are  you  quite  sure  ?  Nothing 
at  all  ? " 

"  No.     What  could  there  be  outside  your  window  ? '' 

I  began  to  wonder  if  her  brain  was  affected.  It  was  the 
only  possible  explanation  of  her  conduct. 

The  wind  had  been  silent  for  some  few  minutes.  Then 
it  rose  again — the  same  faint  sobbing  round  the  window,  a 
sound  as  natural  as  any  could  be,  but  evidently  full  of  super- 
natural dread  to  her.  She  sprang  to  her  feet  and  held  up 
her  hand  again. 

"  Listen  !  "  she  cried. 

"It  is  nothing,  Lady  Culmore,"  I  said,  speaking  firmly, 
for  I  thought  that  perhaps  this  was  but  a  severe  hysterical 


21 

attack.  "  It  is  nothing,  Lady  Culmore,"  I  repeated.  "  Do 
you  understand  ?  It  is  only  the  wailing  of  the  wind." 

"  Ah,  no  !  "  she  said.  "  That  is  what  it  sounds  like  to 
you.  Do  you  know  what  it  is  in  reality  ?  It  is  the  crying  of 
a  little  child,  quite  a  little  child,  standing  there.  Hark  !  Do 
you  not  hear  it  now  ?  " 

There  was  certainly  some  faint  resemblance  to  the  cry  of 
a  child,  the  wail  of  an  infant  in  great  pain.  I  should  never 
have  thought  of  it  but  for  her. 

"  Lady  Culmore,"  I  said,  "  you  must  listen  to  reason,  you 
must  be  calm.  This  is  foolish,  hysterical,  nervous  nonsense  ! 
Come  with  me  to  the  window.  Look  and  listen  for  yourself." 

She  wrung  her  hands. 

"  I  dare  not !  "  she  cried. 

"  You  must,"  I  said.  "  It  is  the  only  way  in  which  you 
can  be  convinced.  Come." 

I  took  the  white  hands  in  mine  and  compelled  her  to 
cross  the  room.  I  drew  aside  the  blinds  and  hangings, 
opened  the  window,  and  made  her  look  out. 

"You  see  there  is  nothing,"  I  said.  "Look  at  the  moon, 
the  water,  and  the  trees." 

She  turned  away  with  a  deathly  shudder. 

"  I  must  have  dreamt  it  then,"  she  said. 

"  What  did  you  dream  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  I  dreamt  that  I  heard  some  one  tapping  at  the  window, 
and  I  woke  in  a  great  fright.  Then  I  heard  the  wailing  of  a 
child,  a  pitiful  tiny  voice  sobbing  with  the  faintest  breath, 
and  the  sound  came  from  the  window.  I  went  there,  and 
drew  aside  the  curtains  as  you  have  done  now,  and  I  saw — 
oh,  that  Heaven  would  darken  my  eyes  for  evermore  ! — I 
saw  a  tiny  child  standing  there,  dressed  in  a  little  white 
shroud,  and  he  was  rapping  with  a  feeble  little  hand  on  the 
window-pane.  For  one  moment  the  baby  eyes  flashed  into 
mine,  and  I  knew  that  if  he  came  in  I  should  fall  down  dead." 

"  It  was  a  dream,"  I  said,  with  a  sigh  of  unutterable  re- 
lief— "  only  a  dream." 

But  she  broke  from  me  with  a  terrible  cry.  She  flung 
herself  upon  her  knees,  she  tore  her  fair  hair,  she  beat  her 
hands  together  wildly,  and  I  spent  the  remainder  of  the  night 
in  trying  to  soothe  her.  Verily  I  had  cause  to  remember  the 
bitter  winds  of  March  ! 


CHAPTER  V. 

APRIL,  with  its  soft  showers,  its  odor  of  sweet  violets  and 
growing  buds,  its  sweet  daffodils  and  pale  primroses,  was 
passing  quickly,  but  still  there  was  no  change  at  Ullamere. 
It  was  nearly  four  months  since  I  came,  and  there  was  the 
same  gloom,  the  same  constraint,  the  same  wretchedness  in 
Sir  Rudolph's  home ;  but  by  this  time  I  had  lost  all  desire 
to  leave  the  place.  All  my  affection  and  interest,  all  my 
thoughts,  were  centered  in  the  baronet  and  his  wife. 

There  was  nothing  very  mysterious  about  Sir  Rudolph, 
except  the  way  in  which  he  lived.  The  whole  mystery 
seemed  to  cling  to  Lady  Culmore.  After  that  night  when  the 
winds  of  March  blew  so  terribly,  I  had  a  lingering  suspicion 
that  her  mind  was  unhinged,  had  lost  its  balance.  And  yet, 
even  if  it  were  so,  that  was  no  solution  of  the  mystery  of  Sir 
Rudolph's  conduct.  A  man  who  loved  his  wife  would  but 
study  her  the  more  for  any  misfortune  of  that  kind. 

I  remember  another  incident.  This  happened  in  the 
calm,  early,  gray  morning  light.  Again  I  heard  footsteps  in 
the  corridor,  and  again  the  handle  of  my  door  was  turned. 
I  knew  this  time  that  it  was  Lady  Culmore.  She  was  stand- 
ing outside,  with  the  same  terrible  fear  on  her  face. 

"  I  want  you,  Miss  Forster,"  she  said.  "  Come  with  me  ;  " 
and  as  a  matter  of  course,  I  went. 

"  She  carefully  closed  the  door  of  her  room,  placed  the 
wax-taper  on  the  table,  and  turned  to  me.  The  distress  in 
her  white  face  was  terrible  to  see. 

"  Now,"  she  cried — "  now  tell  me  what  you  hear  !  "  She 
seemed  to  breathe  with  difficulty  ;  great  gasps  came  from  her 
lips.  "  Quickly,"  she  said — "  tell  me  quickly  !  What  do  you 
hear  ? " 

"  Nothing,"  I  replied.  "  There  is  not  a  sound  ;  even  the 
wind  is  still." 

She  struck  her  hands  together  with  a  passionate  cry. 

"  You  must  hear  it.     You  sav  '  No '  to  calm  me.     I  shall 


23 

not  be  frightened  if  you  hear  it ;  but,  if  it  comes  only  to  me, 
oh,  Heaven,  what  shall  I  do  ?  " 

She  hid  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  trembled  so  violently 
that  I  became  alarmed. 

"  Tell  me  what  you  hear,  Lady  Culmore,"  I  requested. 

"  The  cry  of  a  child.  Can  you  not  hear  it  ?  It  has  been 
wailing  round  my  pillow  all  night  long,  until  it  has  driven  me 
mad,"  she  said.  "  I  am  mad  !  Oh,  Miss  Forster,  look  for 
it !  I  am  sure  it  is  here.  Some  of  those  wicked  servants 
have  hidden  ir  here  on  purpose  that  it  should  cry  and 
frighten  me.  We  must  find  it ;  I  can  bear  it  no  longer  !  " 
And  the  most  painful  spectacle  I  ever  saw  in  my  life  was  the 
spectacle  of  this  beautiful  desperate  woman  searching  every- 
where for  that  which  did  not  exist.  Suddenly  she  looked  at 
the  door.  "  Ah,"  she  cried,  "  it  is  outside  now  !  It  is  dying 
away  at  the  end  of  the  corridor.  It  is  gone  ;  thank  Heaven, 
it  is  gone  !  " 

She  shrank,  shuddering,  from  the  door,  and  sank  down 
upon  a  chair.  She  was  exhausted,  white,  trembling.  I  went 
to  her  and  took  her  hands.  They  were  cold  as  death  itself. 

"  You  have  been  dreaming  again,  Lady  Culmore,"  I  said. 
"  You  must  remember  that  you  had  the  same  dream  before, 
and  how  it  terrified  you.  Try  to  be  cheerful.  You  must  be 
ill  or  nervous ;  such  fancies  and  dreams  as  these  do  not 
trouble  strong  or  healthy  people.  You  should  go  away  from 
here.  I  shall  certainly  speak  to  Sir  Rudolph  about  it ;  he 
does  not  know  how  ill  you  are." 

She  clung  to  me  with  passionate  cries  and  tears. 

"  You  must  not  do  that.  I  cannot  go  away.  Promise  me 
that  you  will  not  say  one  word  to  him.  I  will  kill  myself  if 
you  do  !  " 

Her  vehemence  startled  me. 

"  Certainly  I  will  not,  unless  you  wish  it,"  I  said.  "  You 
.re  really  ill  though,  Lady  Culmore,  and  you  should  have 
medical  advice.  These  terrible  fancies  of  yours  are  only  the 
result  of  illness." 

She  flung  her  arms  around  me,  and  laid  her  fair  head  on 
my  shoulder. 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  "  she  whispered.  "  Oh,  comfort  me, 
comfort  me,  for  my  heart  is  torn  and  desolate  !  " 

How  was  I  to  comfort  her  when  I  did  not  even  know  her 
trouble  ?  I  could  feel  how  her  heart  was  beating,  how  she 


trembled,  while  great  bitter  sobs  rose  to  her  lips,  and  I  won- 
dered more  than  ever  what  had  gone  wrong  in  the  life  of 
this  beautiful  sorrowful  woman. 

I  smoothed  the  fair  shining  hair,  and  the   touch  of   my 
hand  calmed  her. 

"  It  is  a  strange  thing,"  I  said  to  her,  "  that  you  should 
always  have  the  same  dream,  that  you  should  be  haunted,  as 
it  were,  by  the  cries  of  a  little  child." 

Her  face  could  grow  no  paler ;  but  her  head  fell  more 
heavily  upon  my  shoulder. 

"  So  strange  !  "  she  murmured.     "  Ah,  so  strange  !  " 

"  You  never  had  a  little  child,  Lady  Culmore,  had  you?  " 

"  Never,"  she  answered. 

Had  you  little  brothers  or  sisters  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  None,"  she  replied. 

"  It  is  an  extraordinary  thing,  never  having  had  anything 
to  do  with  a  little  child,  that  you  should  be  haunted  by  the 
cries  of  one !  " 

She  was  looking  at  me  with  wild,  distended  eyes. 

"  Miss  Forster,  you  will  not  tell  this  fancy  of  mine  to 
any  one  ? "  she  said  slowly.  "  I  am  so  afraid  that  people 
should  think  me  mad." 

Then  she  promised  to  try  to  be  calm,  to  lie  down  and 
sleep,  if  I  would  remain  with  her.  I  did  so,  and  sat  down  by 
her  side,  holding  her  hand,  until  at  last  she  dropped  into  a 
fevered,  restless  sleep. 

Ah  me,  how  restless  !  The  beautiful  head  and  troubled 
face  turned  incessantly  from  side  to  side  ;  the  lips  were  never 
still ;  and  the  burden  of  her  cry  was,  "  I  did  it  all  for  you, 
love — all  for  you  !  "  Then  came  prayers,  entreaties,  sighs, 
and  tears  ;  but  above  all  rang  that  one  pitiful  cry,  "  All  for 
you,  love — all  for  you  !  " 

In  the  full  morning  light  I  left  her  fast  asleep. 

Could  it  be  that  the  gloom  of  the  house  was  extending  to 
me  ?  All  that  day  I  was  miserable.  I  felt  sure  that  Lady 
Culmore  was  very  ill,  threatened  with  a  severe  illness  or  with 
insanity.  I  was  sorely  perplexed,  feeling  that  it  was  my 
duty  to  get  help  for  her  from  somewhere,  yet  not  knowing  in 
the  least  to  whom  I  should  apply.  I  would  not  betray  her. 
I  would  keep  the  secret  of  her  strange  fancies  and  her  terri- 
ble nights ;  but  I  must  have  the  advice  of  some  one  as  to 
how  she  could  best  be  dealt  with.  The  only  person  I  could 


think  of  was  Mrs.  Harper,  the  housekeeper  ;  and  I  went  one 
afternoon  in  search  of  her.  I  asked  her  to  come  out  with 
me  into  the  grounds,  where  I  could  talk  to  her  at  my  ease. 
I  told  her  thac  I  thought  Lady  Culmore  was  very  ill,  and 
that  she  required  more  attention  than  I  could  give  her.  The 
housekeeper  looked  sorry  and  very  puzzled. 

"  I  am  just  as  much  bewildered  as  yourself,  miss,"  she 
said.  "This  is  not  like  any  other  household.  What  lies 
between  those  two — husband  and  wife — I  cannot  tell,  but  I 
fear  it  is  something  terrible.  They  seem  to  me  more  like 
jailer  and  prisoner  than  anything  else." 

"Which  is  the  jailer?  "  I  asked. 

"  Sir  Rudolph,"  she  answered.  "  I  would  not  stay  but 
that,  after  all,  I  like  both  my  master  and  my  lady  so  well. 
They  seem  to  me  perfection  apart,  but  together  they  would 
puzzle  the  saints." 

"  Has  it  always  been  this  way,  Mrs.  Harper  ?  " 

"  Yes.     The  servants  in  the  house  are  strangers,  except  the 

"  Was  there  anything  curious  connected  with  it  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Nothing ;  every  one  noticed  the  intense  love  of  the 
bridegroom  for  the  bride.  I  never  saw  any  one  so  devoted 
in  my  life.  It  was  marvelous  to  see  them  together.  Sir 
Rudolph  brought  his  bride  home  to  Brook  Hall,  and  I  lived 
there  one  year  with  them.  Then,  quite  suddenly,  they  came 
here  ;  and  they  have  lived  in  this  strange  fashion  ever  since." 

"  And  you  know  nothing  of  what  brought  them  here — 
nothing  of  the  cause  of  their  being  on  such  terms  with  each 
other  ?"" 

"  Nothing.  Everything  was  bright  and  happy  at  Brooke 
Hall.  The  house  was  filled  with  guests.  I  remember  even 
that  arrangements  had  been  made  for  a  dance,  when  Sir  Ru- 
dolph sent  for  me  suddenly.  '  We  are  going  to  Ullamere, 
Mrs.  Harper,'  he  said.  '  Will  you  come  with  us  ?  We  shall 
not  return  to  Brooke  Hall.'  '  It  is  very  sudden,  Sir  Rudolph,' 
I  said  ;  and  then  I  noticed  how  white  his  face  was.  I  have 
never  seen  him  like  himself  since  that — never;  and  that  was 
Christmas-eve.  We  stopped  at  Brooke  Hall  until  the  day 
after  Chritsmas-day.  We  have  been  here  just  one  year." 

"  But  there  must  have  been  a  reason,"  I  said.  "A  hus- 
band and  wife,  both  young,  passionately  attached  to  each 
other,  could  not  have  fallen  into  this  state  without  some  rea- 
son." 


26 

"  I  know  ot  none.  1  have  thought  it  over  a  hundred 
times. 

"  Did  nothing  happen  at  Brooke  Hall  ?  Did  Lady  Cul- 
more  make  her  husband  jealous  ?  " 

Mrs.  Harper  smiled. 

"There  was  little  fear,"  she  replied.  "  If  ever  any 
woman  worshipped  a  man,  my  lady  worshipped  her  husband. 
She  seemed  as  though  she  could  not  live  out  of  his  presence. 
It  was  the  wonder  of  every  one.  I  do  not  think,  when  she 
talked  and  laughed  with  other  men,  that  she  really  heeded 
them.  Her  eyes  followed  him  always,  and  her  whole  heart 
was  in  them." 

"  But  was  there  no  warning  of  what  was  about  to  happen  ?  " 

"  None,"  was  the  reply.  "  The  only  incident  which  oc- 
curred at  Brooke  was  the  death  of  the  nurse,  Martha  Jen- 
nings. She  died  on  the  morning  of  Christmas-eve ;  but  that 
had  nothing  to  do  with  my  master  and  mistress  leaving  home 
so  suddenly.  I  think,  Miss  Forster,  it  will  be  better  for  you 
to  speak  to  Sir  Rudolph  about  my  lady.  He  loved  her  so 
dearly  once,  he  must  feel  anxious  if  he  thinks  there  is  any- 
thing the  matter  with  her." 

I  took  Mrs.  Harper's  advice,  and  went  at  once  to  Sir  Ru- 
dolph I  found  him  in  the  gunroom. 

"  I  want  to  speak  to  you  for  a  few  minutes,  Sir  Rudolph," 
I  said. 

He  bowed  with  a  frank  courtesy  that  was  his  great 
charm. 

"Will  you  not  come  in,  Miss  Forster  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  am  too  great  a  coward,  Sir  Rudolph.  I  am  afraid  of 
the  guns." 

"  I  must  come  to  you  then,"  he  said  laughingly  ;  and  he 
joined  me  where  I  was  standing  on  the  lawn,  adding,  "I  am 
at  your  service,  Miss  Forster." 

But  all  his  geniality  died  away  when  I  told  him  that  I 
wished  to  speak  to  him  about  Lady  Culmore.  I  said  that 
she  was  very  ill,  and  that  I  was  uneasy  about  her.  He  was 
a  changed  man  at  once — cold,  hard,  unyielding.  He  listened 
to  all  I  said,  and  made  no  answer,  except  that,  if  I  thought 
Lady  Culmore  ill,  I  could  send  for  a  doctor — any  doctor  I 
liked.  Then  his  interest  ceased. 

"  Sir  Rudolph,"  I  said,  "  have  you — has  any  one  who 
knows  her — any  suspicion  that  Lady  Culmore  is  mad  ?  " 


27 

"  Mad,"  he  repeated,  with  infinite  scorn — "  mad  !    I  wish 
to  Heaven  she  was  !  " 

And  I  was  left  to  find  out  what  those  words  meant. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  end  of  the  month  of  May  was  near,  and  during  all 
this  time  I  had  not  seen  one  vistior  at  the  hall.  Just  as  we 
were  when  the  Christmas  snow  fell,  so  were  we  now  that  the 
roses  and  lilies  were  beginning  to  bloom,  save  that  the  outer 
world  was  a  paradise.  The  lake-country  is,  to  my  thinking, 
the  fairest  part  of  England,  with  its  tors  and  fells,  its  moun- 
tains and  vales. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  sunlight  on  the  hills,  the  blue 
deep  waters,  and  winding  streams,  the  laughing  green  valleys. 

I  had  longed  for  years  to  see  an  English  May,  and  now  my 
desire  was  gratified.  I  had  never  dreamed  of  anything  one 
half  so  fair.  And  this  May  was  the  true  month  of  the  poets, 
sweet  and  smiling.  Pink  and  white  hawthorn  grew  in  the 
hedges  ;  the  lilacs  and  laburnums  were  all  in  rlower  ;  the  fields 
were  so  bright  with  daisies  and  buttercups  that  they  appeared 
carpeted  with  silver  and  gold,  and  the  handsome  spikes  of 
the  chestnuts  were  out  in  profusion. 

Lady  Culmore  had  steadfastly  refused  to  see  a  doctor. 

"  Why  should  I  try  to  preserve  my  life  ?  "  she  said,  when 
I  spoke  of  one.  "  I  had  one  great  hope,  but  it  is  dying  slowly 
and  surely.  When  it  is  quite  dead,  I  shall  die  too.  What 
is  there  in  life  to  make  me  desire  it  ?  "  she  cried  passionately. 
"  Christmas  snow,  March  winds,  summer  flowers,  would  come 
and  go  ;  I  should  be  eating  my  heart  away." 

"  But,  Lady  Culmore,"  I  said,  "  why  should  you  feel  and 
think  in  this  way  ?  Why  should  not  life  be  bright  to  you  as 
it  is  to  others  ?  You  are  so  unhappy  that  I  dare  to  talk  to 
you  as  I  would  not  to  any  one  else.  Why  need  you  despair  ? 
You  are  young  and  beautiful  and  wealthy  ;  and  have  a  hus- 
band who  might Well,  perhaps  I  had  better  not  speak 

of  that." 

"You  do  not  understand,"  she  said.     "  I  made  a  terrible 


28 

mistake  once  in  my  life — a  most  terrible  mistake.  I  see  it 
now.  He  will  never  forgive  nor  forget  it." 

"  How  did  you  make  it  ? "  I  asked. 

"  Through  love  of  him,"  she  answered.  "  Heaven  knows 
I  speak  the  truth.  I  never  thought  of  the  right  or  the  wrong ; 
I  only  thought  that  it  was  all  for  him." 

"  Can  you  tell  me  what  it  was  you  did  ? "  I  asked. 

She  shrank  from  me  trembling,  with  an  expression  of  utter 
despair.  It  seemed  to  me  that  I  was  about  to  solve  the  mys- 
tery at  last.  But  she  cried  out — 

"  No — a  thousand  times  no !  The  words  would  scorch 
my  lips.  I  did  not  see  then  as  I  see  now." 

"  And  you  say  it  was  this  mistake  of  yours  that  estranged 
your  husband  from  you  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Yes.  He  said  he  would  never  forgive  me,  and  I  begin 
to  think  that  he  never  will.  1  had  hope  once,  but  now  I  have 
none.  So  I  pray  that  I  may  die,  for  the  silence  of  death  is 
sweet,  and  life  is  all  bitterness  to  me." 

I  could  not  press  the  question.  I  could  not  force  her  to 
tell  me  this  secret  which  was  corroding  her  very  life. 

As  the  spring  grew  warmer,  she  had  fewer  distressing 
nights.  I  urged  her  to  come  out  of  doors,  I  tried  to  interest 
her  in  the  beauty  of  mountains  and  valley,  of  flower  and  tree  ; 
but  in  vain. 

"  My  heart  is  dead,"  she  saiJ  to  me  one  morning — I  had 
taken  her  to  Esthwaite  Water,  and  we  were  sitting  on  a  grassy 
band.  "  You  see  the  beauty  of  the  sunlight  and  the  flowers  ; 
I  do  not.  Everything  is  alike  to  me — a  dull  hopeless  blank." 

"  Do  you  not  think  you  ought  to  try  to  rouse  yourself  ?  " 
I  asked.  "  I  know  there  are  incurable  sorrows,  but  yours 
can  hardly  be  one." 

She  looked  at  me  with  a  faint  gleam  of  hope  in  her  eyes. 

"  What  do  you  call  an  incurable  sorrow,  Kate  ?  "  she  asked 
• — we  were  so  much  together,  and  she  had  grown  so  fond  of 
me,  that  she  generally  used  my  Christian  name. 

"  An  incurable  sorrow  means,  I  suppose,  a  sorrow  which 
there  seems  no  hope  of  assuaging,"  I  replied. 

"  And  what  should  you  think  would  cause  such  a  sorrow 
as  that  ?  "  she  asked. 

I  thought  deeply  for  a  few  minutes  ;  then  I  replied — 

"  There  are  very  few  reasons  for  an  incurable  sorrow. 
P«ath  would  not  be  one,  for  there  is  the  hope  of  meeting 


again  in  heaven ;  sickness  that  has  no  remedy  would  not  be 
one,  for,  patiently  borne,  it  brings  a  blessing  of  its  own  ;  loss 
of  money  is  not  one,  for  life  holds  plenty  of  happiness  with- 
out wealth,  and  hard  work  hurts  no  one.  I  am  puzzled  to 
imagine  what  can  cause  an  incurable  sorrow.  The  only  thing 
I  can  think  of  is  the  doing  of  an  evil  deed  for  which  there  is 
no  remedy." 

"  You  admit  that  that  is  a  ground  for  sorrow  that  can 
never  be  cured  ?  " 

Looking  at  the  beauty  of  earth  and  sky,  of  the  gleaming 
waters  kissing  the  green  banks,  of  the  myriads  of  wild-flowers 
and  ferns  growing  around  us,  I  was  puzzled  again.  All  this 
was  the  work  of  the  great  Creator.  Would  He  who  clothed 
the  lilies,  who  fed  the  sparrows,  give  to  one  of  His  creatures 
pain  that  could  not  be  cured  ? 

"  I  am  beginning  to  think  that  there  is  no  such  thing  as 
an  incurable  sorrow,"  I  said  slowly.  "  We  agree  that  evil 
deeds,  sin,  crime,  are  the  greatest  sources  of  sorrow.  There 
is  no  sin,  no  crime,  so  great  but  that  Heaven  will  pardon  it." 

"  Do  you  think  so,  Kate  ?  "  And  the  mournful  blue  eyes 
sought  mine  with  the  first  gleam  of  hope  that  I  had  ever  seen 
in  them. 

"  I  am  sure  of  it,"  I  replied.  "  There  is  no  sin  so  great, 
no  crime  so  horrible,  but  that  Heaven  will  pardon,  if  pardon 
be  asked." 

"  But  man,"  she  said — "  why  does  not  man  forgive  ?  " 

"  Man  acts  with  human  power,  Heaven  with  power  divine. 
Men  in  this  world  judge,  reward,  and  punish  according  to 
human  laws." 

"  Then  it  happens  sometimes,"  she  said  sadly,  "  that, 
while  Heaven  pardons,  men  punish  ?  " 

"  It  must  be  so,"  I  said.  "Take  a  thief  for  instance.  He 
may  repent  of  his  sin,  and  may  ask  pardon  for  it  with  prayers 
and  tears  ;  all  the  same,  men  must  punish  him.  He  must  be 
imprisoned,  and  made,  if  possible,  to  give  back  his  ill-gotten 
goods.  So  with  all  other  sins.  I  am  quite  sure  of  one  thing 
— that,  no  matter  what  men  may  do,  Heaven  always  pardons 
a  humble  and  contrite  heart." 

"  Yet,"  she  said  despairingly,  "  my  husband  will  never 
forgive  me.  Why  should  he  be  less  pitiful,  less  merciful  than 
Heaven  ?  If  I  knelt  and  prayed  to  him  from  sunrise  to  sun, 
set,  he  would  wave  me  away  with  the  same  cold  gesture.  Oh, 


30 

Kate,  Kate,  do  not  be  shocked,  but  I  think — nay,  I  am  sure 
— that  I  would  sooner  have  had  my  husband's  forgiveness 
than  the  pardon  of  Heaven."  And  her  eyes  sought  mine 
with  a  wistfulness  that  made  my  very  heart  ache. 

"No,  you  do  not  mean  that,  Lady  Culmore,  for  in  that 
case  you  must  have  loved  your  husband  with  a  greater  love 
than  you  have  given  to  the  Creator." 

"I  did,"  she  gasped — "hence  my  sin,  my  terrible  sin  ! 
I  will  be  wiser  Kate.  I  will  weary  Heaven  with  my  prayers 
for  pardon  ;  and,  when  it  is  granted,  I  will  not  cease  to  seek 
my  husband's  forgiveness.  Oh,  my  sin,  my  sin !  It  was  all 
for  love  of  him.  I  would  have  gone  through  fire  and  water 
for  him  ;  and  now " 

I  looked  at  her  in  wonder  and  amazement.  What  had  she 
done  ?  What  was  the  sin  of  which  she  spoke  ?  There  were 
traces  of  great  sorrow  on  her  beautiful  face,  but  no  traces  of 
sin.  A  few  questions  from  me  then,  when  her  heart  was 
softened,  would  have  drawn  her  secret  from  her  ;  but  I  would 
not  ask  them.  After  we  had  talked  for  some  time,  she  sat 
in  silence,  watching  the  golden  light  that  played  amongst 
the  trees  and  shone  upon  the  waters.  Then  she  spoke 
again. 

"  Kate,"  she  said,  "  if  you  loved  any  one  very  much — so 
much  that  you  forgot  everything  else  in  the  world,  so  much 
that  you  forgot  all  about  right  and  wrong — and  you  com- 
mitted a  great  sin  for  the  sake  of  the  man  you  loved,  should 
you  not  think  he  would  find  it  easy  to  forgive  ?  " 

"  I  should  think  forgiveness  would  depend  entirely  on 
what  the  sin  was,  Lady  Culmore." 

The  words  seemed  to  strike  her  like  a  blow.  She  wept 
silently,  bitterly. 

"  Whatever  wrong  you  did,  Lady  Culmore,"  I  said  gently, 
"  you  have  suffered  enough." 

"  I  shall  suffer  until  1  die  !  "  she  moaned. 

I  left  her  a  few  minutes  afterward  to  go  in  search  of  some 
rare  ferns,  and  when  I  came  back  she  was  lying  with  her 
face  on  the  grass.  She  was  sobbing — 

"  Forgive  me — oh,  forgive  me  !  It  was  all  for  him  ;  I 
loved  him  so." 

And  I  wondered  more  than  ever  what  was  the  mystery  of 
this  woman's  life. 


CHAPTER   VII. 

"  Miss  FORSTER,"  said  Sir  Rudolph  one  morning,  "  will 
you  take  a  message  from  me  to  Mrs.  Harper  ?  I  promised  to 
be  at  Bernham  Woods  by  eleven  o'clock,  and  it  is  nine  now  ; 
so  that  I  have  not  time  to  see  her  myself." 

"  I  will  take  any  message  you  please,  Sir  Rudolph,"  I  re- 
plied, grieved  that  he  altogether  ignored  his  wife,  who  was 
present. 

She  looked  up,  with  a  deep  shadow  of  pain  in  her  eyes. 

"  Tell  Mrs.  Harper  that  I  expect  my  brother,  Mr.  Ulric 
Culmore,  this  evening,  and  that  he  will  remain  a  few  weeks. 
I  should  like  the  blue  rooms  to  be  prepared  for  him."  The 
blue  rooms  were  two  very  charming  apartments  in  the  west 
wing,  near  to  Sir  Rudolph's ;  one  was  used  as  a  sitting-room, 
the  other  as  a  sleeping-room.  "  Ask  Mrs.  Harper  to  see 
that  a  writing-table  is  placed  in  the  sitting-room,"  continued 
Sir  Rudolph;  "my  brother  will  want  to  study  while  he  is 
here." 

He  bowed  and  went  away.  Lady  Culmore  came  up  to 
me,  and  once  more  I  noticed  the  excessive  whiteness  of  her 
hands,  the  pallor  of  her  face.  She  clutched,  rather  than 
held  my  arm. 

"  Kate."  she  cried,  in  a  low  terrified  whisper.  "  Kate, 
what  does  this  mean  ? " 

"  I  do  not  understand  you,  Lady  Culmore,"  I  said. 

"  Why  is  he  coming,  of  all  the  people  in  the  world  ? 
Ulric  Culmore — why  is  he  coming  ?  I — I  am  sore  afraid." 

"  Afraid  of  what  ?  "  I  asked.  "  Surely  not  of  Sir  Ru- 
dolph's brother  ? " 

"Yes,  of  him,"  she  said.     "What  is  he  coming  for  ?  " 

"  To  see  Sir  Rudolph,  and  to  rest  most  probably,"  I  said. 

"  Do  you  think  so  ? "  she  cried  eagerly.  "  Do  you  see 
nothing  else  in  it  ?  " 

"  What  else  could  there  be  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  He  is  a  barrister,  and  very  clever,"  she  said. 

"  That  has  nothing  to  do  with  it,"  '1  answered,  laughing. 

But  she  continued  to  tremble,  and  I  left  her  to  attend  to 
Sir  Rudolph's  orders. 


32 

"  Mr.  Ulric  Culmore  coming !  "  said  the  housekeeper. 
"  I  am  glad  !  " 

"  Do  you  know  him  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Yes,  Miss.  He  came  to  Brooke  Hall  while  I  was  there, 
and  I  liked  him  very  much.  I  am  glad  he  is  coming.  He 
will  be  sure  to  bring  some  kind  of  change  to  this  miserable 
house." 

"  Then  he  has  never  been  to  Ullamere  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  No,"  she  replied.  "  The  last  time  he  came  to  Brooke 
was  to  attend  the  funeral." 

A  funeral  is  an  every-day  matter,  and  it  did  not  occur  to 
me  to  ask  whose  it  was. 

"  When  he  was  at  Brooke  Hall,  all  was  right  between  Sir 
Rudolph  and  my  lady,"  continued  Mrs.  Harper.  "  I  remem- 
ber that  they  both  drove  with  him  to  the  station.  He  will 
be  surprised  indeed  when  he  sees  how  matters  stand  here ; 
but  I  think  he  will  improve  them.  Both  Sir  Rudolph  and 
my  lady  are  much  attached  to  him." 

I  remembered  the  white  face  and  the  frightened  eyes  of 
Lady  Culmore,  and  I  doubted  if  this  were  the  case  so  far  as 
she  was  concerned. 

On  the  evening  of  the  27th  of  May  I  went  out  for  a  short 
stroll  through  the  grounds.  Dinner  was  delayed  until  half 
past  eight,  on  account  of  Ulric  Culmore's  expected  arrival. 
I  wandered  down  to  the  lakeside,  and  stood  there  watching 
the  gold  of  the  laburnum,  the  blue  of  the  lake,  the  rippling 
green  foliage,  the  brown  distant  hills,  until  I  was  lost  in 
admiration.  It  was  the  chill  breeze  coming  from  the  lake 
that  roused  me.  I  had  been  absorbed  in  trying  to  penetrate 
the  mystery  of  the  baronet's  household,  and  I  found  that  the 
time  had  passed  rapidly.  I  hastened  back  to  the  house ; 
and,  as  I  stood  outside  the  porch,  which  was  hidden  by  great 
masses  of  white  jasmine  and  climbing  roses,  I  heard  a 
strange  voice  say — 

"  You  have  visitors  at  Ullamere,  Rudolph  ?  " 

"  No,"  was  the  quick  reply,  "  we  have  not." 

"  There  was  one  of  the  loveliest  girls  I  have  ever  seen  in 
my  life  down  by  the  lakeside,"  added  the  strange  voice. 
"  I  saw  her  as  I  was  crossing  the  bridge — a  brunette,  perfect 
in  her  way." 

"  Miss  Forster,"  said  Rudolph  quietly. 

"  And  who  is  Miss  Forster  ? :'  asked  the  unknown. 


33 

"  She  is,  as  you  say,  a  most  lovely  girl,  and  she  is  as  good 
as  she  is  lovely.  She  lives  here  at  Ullamere  as  companion 
to  Lady  Culmore." 

Then  I  heard  a  light  lai:ph. 

"  I  should  not  have  thought  you  would  have  allowed  that. 
You  were  always  companion  enough  for  her." 

I  hurried  away.  The  conversation  was  not  intended  for 
me  ;  and  surely  he,  the  stranger,  must  have  been  mistaken  in 
calling  me  a  lovely  girl  !  Why,  at  school  the  other  girls  were 
always  teasing  me  about  my  dusky  hair  and  dark  eyes  !  Of 
course  this  must  be  Ulric  Culmore.  I  longed  to  see  his  face, 
for  his  voice  was  both  rich  and  musical.  I  was  young,  and 
no  one  had  ever  praised  me,  no  one  had  ever  paid  me  any 
homage.  My  heart  thrilled  wiih  delight  at  this  tribute  to  my 
beauty. 

Then  the  dinner  bell  rang.  I  felt  shy  and  embarrassed ; 
but  I  had  no  time  to  think  of  myself.  Lady  Culmore  came 
to  my  room. 

"  Kate,"  she  said,  "  let  me  go  down  with  you."  She  wore 
a  rich  sapphire  velvet,  with  •&  parure  of  fine  pearls.  "  Do  I 
look  nice  ?  "  she  asked  eagerly. 

"  You  look  perfectly  beautiful,"  I  replied.  "  That  is  a 
dress  fit  for  a  queen." 

"  But  my  face  ?  "  she  said.  "  Kate,  if  you  saw  my  face 
now  for  the  first  time,  should  you  think  that  I  had  anything 
on  my  mind,  that  any  secret  was  eating  my  life  away  ?  Tell 
me  truly,  Kate.  Do  I  look  like  a  woman  with  a  secret  ?  " 

I  turned  so  that  I  could  see  her  plainly.  The  magnificent 
dress,  falling  in  graceful  folds,  suited  her  to  perfection  ;  the 
pearls  shone  round  her  white  graceful  throat  and  in  the  coils 
of  her  fair  hair  ;  a  sweet  subtle  odor  was  wafted  to  me.  No 
figure,  no  face  could  have  been  more  beautiful ;  but,  alas,  she 
\\as  right — it  was  the  face  of  a  woman  with  a  secret  !  The 
eyes  and  the  lips  betrayed  it — they  were  so  constrained,  she 
kept  such  a  guard  over  them.  She  stood  watching  me  anx- 
iously, as  though  her  very  life  depended  upon  my  answer. 
For  a  few  moments  I  was  silent. 

"  And  you  do  not  wish  Mr.Ulric  Culmore  to  find  it  out  ?" 
was  all  I  could  bring  myself  to  say. 

"  I  do  not,"  she  replied. 

"  Then  you  must  let  your  face  relax.  There  is  a  restraint, 
a  tension  about  it,  that  tells  the  story." 


34 

fk 

"  How  shall  I  shake  it  off  ?  "  she  cried,  suddenly  clinging 
to  me.  "  You  are  so  kind,  so  good  to  me,  tell  me — how  shall 
I  shake  it  off  ?  " 

"  Forget  it,"  I  said. 

I  regretted  my  words  as  soon  as  they  were  uttered.  She 
flung  up  her  arms  with  a  terrible  cry. 

"  Forget  it  !  Oh,  Heaven,  if  I  might,  if  I  could  but  have 
the  power  to  forget  it  for  one  hour — only  one  hour  !  " 

I  saw  that  one  of  her  fits  of  violent  excitement  was  impend- 
ing, and  that  she  would  not  be  able  to  go  down  to  dinner  un- 
less it  was  averted.  I  talked  to  her,  reasoned  with  her,  ad- 
mired her  dress — admiration  of  such  a  kind,  poor  lady,  always 
pleased  her — and,  by  the  time  the  dinner  bell  rang,  I  had 
quite  forgotten  my  own  little  gleam  of  happiness  in  having 
been  called  lovely. 

I  went  into  the  room  with  Lady  Culmore.  She  trembled 
so  that  she  could  hardly  hold  her  fan  in  her  hands.  Some 
one  came  to  meet  us  as  we  entered  ;  some  one  with  a  hand- 
some face  and  winning  voice  took  Lady  Culmore's  hand  in 
his  and  said. 

"  Why,  Nest,  you  are  not  looking  well  !  What  is  the  mat- 
ter ?  Will  you  introduce  me  to  Miss  Forster  ?  " 

Ah  me,  the  thought  of  the  rapture  of  that  moment  will 
cause  my  heart  to  thrill  with  ecstasy  until  I  die  !  Never  till 
then  shall  I  forget  his  first  glance.  So  I  met  my  fate — the 
love  that  was  my  doom.  It  came  to  me  when  Ulric  Culmore 
looked  into  my  face  for  the  first  time.  I  remember  it  was 
only  a  momentary  glance  ;  but  my  heart  beat  fast,  a  mist  came 
before  my  eyes,  a  vague  something  stirred  in  my  heart  ;  one 
glance  from  those  beautiful  eyes  had  suddenly  roused  my 
whole  being  into  new  life. 

When  I  was  myself  again,  he  was  talking  to  Lady  Culmore, 
and  there  was  evident  anxiety  in  his  voice. 

"  I  cannot  think  what  has  changed  you  so  completely, 
Nest,"  he  was  saying.  "  You  had  two  of  the  most  delicious 
dimples  in  the  world,  and  they  have  both  disappeared.  I 
remember  thinking  to  myself  that,  when  I  married,  I  would 
choose  a  wife  with  just  such  dimples." 

How  terribly  awkward  it  was  !  Just  as  he  said  those 
words  I  wondered  if  I  was  blessed  with  such  charms.  I 
raised  my  eyes  suddenly,  and  found  that  he  was  looking  at 
me.  I  felt  as  though  I  had  been  detected  in  some  terrible 
crime,  and  blushed  to  the  very  roots  of  my  hair. 


35 

Sir  Rudolph  came  into  the  room  and  went  to  speak  to  his 
brother.  I  turned  to  Lady  Culmore,  who  looked  very  pale 
and  agitated. 

"  Pray  forgive  me,  Lady  Culmore,"  I  said.  "  What  was 
the  pretty  name  by  which  Mr.  Culmore  called  you  ?  " 

A  sad  sweet  smile  came  over  her  beautiful  face. 

"  Nest,"  she  replied.  "  It  is  a  Welsh  name.  I  cannot 
tell  why  it  was  given  to  me.  It  brings  back  so  much  to  my 
mind.  I  have  not  heard  the  name  for  a  year — for  a  whole 
year.  I  had  almost  forgotten  it." 

Then  I  looked  up  in  wonder,  for  I  heard  a  sound  that  was 
quite  novel  to  me — Sir  Rudolph  laughing,  actually  laughing, 
in  the  most  light-hearted  fashion.  How  completely  that 
laugh  changed  the  expression  of  his  face  it  would  be  impos- 
sible to  tell.  I  had  been  at  Ullamere  from  Christmas-eve 
until  now,  the  end  of  May,  and  such  a  thing  had  never  oc- 
curred before. 

"  Kate,"  said  Lady  Culmore,  "  do  you  think  that  Ulric 
will  notice  Sir  Rudolph's  manner  to  me  ?  " 

I  felt  sure  that  he  must ;  but  I  did  my  best  to  comfort 
her  by  saying  that  we  would  talk  so  much  that  it  would  not 
be  perceived. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE  dinner  that  evening  was,  for  two  of  us  at  least,  an 
anxious  interval.  Lady  Culmore  evidently  did  not  wish  Mr. 
Culmore  to  see  the  peculiar  footing  on  which  she  stood  with 
Sir  Rudolph.  He  himself  did  not  change  his  manner  in  the 
least.  Except  for  the  needful  civilities  of  the  table,  he  did 
not  address  his  wife.  She  spoke  to  him  several  times,  and 
between  us  we  managed  to  hide  from  the  visitor  the  terrible 
state  of  things  that  existed.  Yet  I  saw  him  once  or  twice 
look  from  one  to  the  other  with  strangely  wondering  eyes,  as 
though  he  could  not  quite  understand  or  make  out  how  mat- 
ters stood.  He  was  bewildered  and  puzzled.  And,  though 
it  was  a  delight  to  me  to  sit  there  at  table  with  him,  where  I 


36 

could  see  the  handsome  face  and  listen  to  every  bright 
cheerful  word  that  fell  from  his  lips,  I  was  glad  when  we 
went  away.  It  was  such  an  effort  to  keep  up  conversation 
in  the  circumstances. 

Mr.  Culmore  held  the  door  open  for  us  as  we  passed 
through.  He  smiled  at  Lady  Culmore. 

"We  shall  not  be  long,  Nest,"  he  said.  "  It  is  a  barbar- 
ous custom  for  men  to  linger  over  their  wine." 

But  I  felt  sure  Sir  Rudolph  would  not  join  us  ;  it  was  not 
his  custom. 

Lady  Culmore  could  not  rest. 

"  Play  to  me,  Kate  ;  sing  to  me,"  she  said,  when  we 
reached  the  drawing-room.  "  Do  something  that  will  bring 
them  here  ;  I  dread  leaving  them  alone."  She  was  pacing 
up  and  down  the  room,  her  hands  clasped,  her  eyes  full  of 
wistful  sorrow.  "  Sing  something  that  will  attract  them," 
she  entreated. 

And  I  sang  my  best  songs,  French  and  English.  They 
did  not  come.  I  knew  they  would  not.  Her  agitation  in- 
creased every  moment,  until  it  became  almost  hysterical. 

"  What  will  he  think,  Kate  ?  What  will  Mr.  Culmore 
think  ?  He  must  see — he  must  notice  the  change.  He  will 
never  rest  until  he  knows  the  cause." 

"  You  may  be  quite  sure  that,  if  Sir  Rudolph  does  not 
come  to  spend  the  evening  with  us,  he  will  not  spend  it  in 
talking  about  you." 

I  read  her  fear.  Whatever  the  secret  of  her  life  was,  she 
dreaded  lest  her  husband  should  reveal  it  to  his  brother.  I 
knew  Sir  Rudolph  was  incapable  of  that. 

I  continued  to  play  and  sing ;  but  the  clock  had  struck 
eleven  before  they  came,  and  then  I  saw  that  the  gloom  and 
the  shadow  had  spread  to  Ulric's  handsome  face  and  rested 
there.  Yet  I  felt  sure  that  Sir  Rudolph  had  not  betrayed 
his  wife. 

Mr.  Culmore  looked  wonderingly  from  one  to  the  other. 

"  You  must  not  blame  me,  Nest.  It  is  not  fair  to  tell  tales 
out  of  school ;  but  Rudolph  would  not  come.  He  would 
have  all  my  Bar  stories  over  again.  I  told  him  it  was  not 
polite." 

Then  he  came  over  to  me.  He  talked  to  me,  and  the 
sound  of  his  voice  was  sweet  and  pleasant  to  my  ears.  Yet 
I  was  not  so  much  engrossed  but  that  I  saw  Lady  Culmore 


37 

go  up  to  her  husband  and  speak  to  him.  She  folded  her 
hands,  as  though  she  were  uttering  a  prayer,  but  she  did  not 
offer  to  touch  him.  I  knew  afterward  that  she  was  pleading 
with  him,  in  tones  that  might  have  melted  any  heart,  that  he 
would  be  just  a  little  merciful  to  her  while  Ulric  was  here. 
And  he  had  answered — 

<;  A  contract  is  a  contract.     Ours  cannot  be  broken." 

The  gentlemen  remained  in  the  drawing-room  for  half  an 
hour,  and  the  puzzled,  bewildered  look  in  Ulric  Culmore's 
eyes  deepened.  In  his  happy,  cordial  way  he  made  an  effort 
to  bring  them  together.  He  asked  if  we  should  like  a  game 
of  whist.  Sir  Rudolph  said  "  No."  In  his  conversation  he 
appealed  from  one  to  the  other ;  but  Sir  Rudolph  was  im- 
penetrable, cold,  impassible — nothing  stirred  or  moved  him  ; 
and,  when  Mr.  Culmore  found  this  to  be  really  the  case,  he 
was  too  much  of  a  gentleman  to  persevere.  He  let  matters 
take  their  own  course,  and  looked  on  in  silence. 

When  something  or  other  happened  that  revealed  the  gulf 
between  this  hapless  husband  and  wife,  I  saw  his  eyes  fixed 
on  me  questioningly ;  but  no  words  crossed  our  lips. 

Sir  Rudolph  seemed  devotedly  attached  to  his  brother ; 
the  love  that  should  have  been  lavished  on  his  wife  was  given 
to  him.  It  was  delightful  to  see  them  together ;  he  was  so 
amiable,  so  attentive,  Ulric  so  bright  and  kindly.  But  Lady 
Culmore  was  sorely  pained.  I  did  not  remember  ever  to 
have  seen  her  look  so  unhappy.  Ulric  made  no  change  in 
his  treatment  of  her.  He  was  kind,  attentive,  and  affectionate 
to  her.  Either  he  knew  her  secret  and  thought  nothing  of 
it,  or  did  not  know,  and  retained  his  old  affectionate  respect 
for  her. 

Mr.  Culmore  came  to  breakfast  with  us  the  next  morning, 
and  was  startled  at  not  finding  his  brother  there. 

"  Where  is  Rudolph  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  He  seldom  takes  breakfast  with  us,"  replied  Lady  Cul- 
more, her  face  flushing  painfully.  And  Ulric,  seeing  it,  said 
no  more. 

So  the  day  passed,  and  though  Ulric's  presence  seemed 
to  have  brought  light  and  sunshine,  it  wrought  jio  change  in 
the  unhappy  relationship  which  existed  between  husband  and 
wife.  He  never  alluded  to  it ;  he  seemed  gradually  to  fall 
into  our  strange  \vays.  He  was  kind  and  loving  to  both, 
ignored  the  estrangement  as  much  as  possible,  took  the  part 


3* 

of  neither,  and  behaved  as  well  as  any  man  could  possibly 
have  behaved  in  the  circumstances. 

After  a  few  days  Lady  Culmore  recovered  herself,  finding 
that  her  brother-in-law  merely  wondered  and  looked  puzzled. 

How  am  I  to  tell  what  next  happened  ?  What  words  shall 
I  find  sweet  enough,  fair  enough  for  my  story  ?  On  Christ- 
mas-eve, leaning  over  the  stile  that  led  into  the  snow-clad 
meadows,  looking  up  to  the  night-sky  where  the  stars  shone, 
I  had  prayed  Heaven  as  a  Christmas  gift  to  send  me  some 
one  to  love  me  ;  and  with  the  budding  of  the  green  leaves, 
with  the  singing  of  birds  and  the  sunshine  of  May,  rny  prayer 
was  granted. 

I  seemed  to  be  standing  outside  the  gates  of  some  wonder- 
ful land,  when  suddenly  they  opened,  and  the  golden  light 
fell  full  upon  me,  blinding  and  dazzling  me.  At  first  I 
thought  of  Ulric  Culmore  simply  as  a  scholar  and  a  gentleman; 
later  I  began  to  look  upon  him  as  one  of  the  handsomest, 
noblest,  most  generous  of  men  ;  finally  I  found  that  his  pres- 
ence greatly  affected  me.  Why  should  my  heart  beat  fast  at 
the  sound  of  his  voice  ?  Why  should  my  face  burn  at  the 
sight  of  him  ?  Why  did  I  tremble  like  a  leaf  in  the  wind  when 
he  spoke  to  me  ?  Why  did  every  nerve  and  pulse  thrill  at 
the  bare  mention  of  his  name  ?  My  heart  told  me  that  it 
was  because'  I  loved  him. 

I  gave  him  the  whole  love  of  my  heart,  and  I  never  thought 
of  its  being  returned.  It  was  happiness  enough  to  me  to 
love  him.  I  never  thought  of  past  or  future  •,  the  present 
sufficed  for  me.  Heaven  knows  that  I  was  not  presumptuous 
in  my  love.  To  live  where  I  should  see  him,  to  do  all  in  my 
power  for  those  he  loved,  to  live  loving  him,  to  die  breathing 
his  name — I  had  no  greater  ambition,  no  more  fervent  hope. 
To  me  he  stood  quite  apart  in  the  world  of  men — there  was 
none  like  him,  none  equal  to  him  ;'that  he  should  ever  dream 
of  placing  me  by  his  cico  seeded  most  improbable.  So  the 
lovely  month  of  roscc,  :aui~  round  while  the  heart  of  t!ie  cVi'u. 
changed  into  the  passionate-  loving  heart  of  the  woman,  and 
I  was  a  child  :\o  more. 

How  I  loved  him  '.  And  it  was  no  wonder.  I  had  seen  so 
little  of  life.  He  vas  really  the  first  young,  handsome  man  I 
had  known.  That  beautiful  June  was  the  happ^-t  montli  of 
my  life  ;  not  that  1  forgot  the  trouble;  and  sorrows  of  others, 


30 

but  that  the  glamor  of  love's  young  dream  was  so  strong  upon 
me  that  my  heart  was  full. 

Ulric  Culmore  had  come  to  Ullamere  to  study  and  to  rest, 
yet  how  often  in  the  early  mornings,  when  the  lake  was  like 
a  sheet  of  molten  gold  and  the  rosy  light  lay  on  the  distant 
hills,  I  found  him  in  the  grounds  or  down  by  the  water-side  ! 
And  I  had  not  the  faintest  idea  that  he  came  because  he 
wished  to  talk  to  me.  The  knowledge  that  I  loved  him  with 
a  full  and  perfect  love  that  was  to  be  my  one  secret  in  life, 
gave  me,  strange  to  say,  perfect  ease  in  his  presence,  perfect 
confidence  while  with  him.  So  we  talked  in  the  early  morn- 
ing hours,  under  the  stately  trees,  and  down  by  the  river- 
side, the  birds  singing  to  us,  the  flowers  sending  us  their 
sweet  perfume,  the  sun  shining  down  upon  us. 

Mr.  Culmore  liked  talking  to  me.  He  always  took  break- 
fast with  Lady  Culmore  and  me.  He  very  often  came  during 
the  morning  to  read  to  us  as  we  sat  in  the  shade  of  the 
great  spreading  trees  ;  he  followed  us  always  into  the  draw- 
ing-room after  dinner  ;  he  accompanied  us  in  our  walks  and 
drives. 

"  How  much  pleasanter  a  house  is  when  there  is  a  gentle- 
man to  take  an  interest  in  matters  !  "  I  said  one  day  thought- 
lessly to  Lady  Culmore.  I  repented  the  words  the  moment 
I  saw  her  face  grow  pale. 

One  morning  Ulric  and  I  were  together  amongst  the 
roses.  He  plucked  one  and  gave  it  to  me ;  it  was  a  lovely 
moss-rosebud  just  peeping  coquettishly  from  its  green  leaves. 

"  Do  you  know  what  this  means  ?  "  he  asked. 

I  said  "  No,"  that  I  knew  nothing  of  the  language  of 
flowers. 

"  You  do  not  know  what  a  moss-rosebud  symbolizes  ?  " 
he  questioned.  "  Promise  me  to  try  to  find  out." 

Was  it  the  warm  sunlight  that  dazzled  my  happy  eyes  ? 
I  could  not  look  at  him.  I  took  the  rosebud,  and  ran  away 
shamefacedly. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

As  I  hurried  from  Mr.  Culmore,  I  almost  ran  against 
Lady  Culmore.  I  stopped  to  apologize. 

"  Where  are  you  going  in  such  a  hurry  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  I  replied. 

"  Not  know  where  you  are  going,  Kate  ?     How  strange  !  " 

It  was  perfectly  true.  I  only  knew  that  I  was  running 
away  from  happiness  so  great  that  it  dazed  me  as  do  the  rays 
of  a  burning  sun.  Lady  Culmore  looked  at  me  earnestly — I 
would  have  given  the  world  if  I  could  have  hidden  my  face 
from  her  gaze. 

"  Oh,  child,"  she  said,  "  what  is  this  I  read  in  your  eyes  ? 
What  is  it,  Kate  ?  " 

"  Nothing,"  I  replied,  trying  guiltily  to  hide  the  rosebud. 

"Nothing?"  she  repeated,  "Lift  up  your  head,  Kate, 
and  look  at  me." 

There  was  no  help  for  it.  I  raised  my  head,  and  looked 
at  her.  She  gazed  into  my  eyes,  and  said — 

"  My  dear,  the  light  that  is  in  your  eyes  is  the  light  that 
never  yet  shone  on  land  or  sea.  Do  you  know  what  that  is  ?  " 

"No,"  I  answered. 

"  The  light  of  love,"  she  said.  "  Oh,  Kate,  what— who 
has  brought  it  there  ? " 

"  The  sunlight,"  I  answered,  as  I  ran  away  a  second  time. 

It  was  only  natural  that  I  should  go  to  the  library  in 
search  of  a  Language  of  Flowers,  and  I  read,  "  Moss-rosebud 
— confession  of  love."  Ah  me,  I  smile  now  !  But  then,  when 
I  read  it,  a  great,  and  almost  solemn  awe  came  over  me.  I 
felt  as  a  pilgrim  feels  when  he  first  enters  a  shrine.  Of  course 
it  was  all  nonsense,  merely  a  jest.  It  was  not  likely  that  he 
loved  me.  Still  I  would  far  rather  that  he  had  not  jested 
with  me  on  such  a  subject.  And  then  the  delicious  memory 
of  his  words  came  to  me.  He  had  said  that  I  was  one  of  the 
loveliest  girls  he  had  ever  seen. 

How  my  heart  beat !  How  my  whole  soul  seemed  filled 
with  sunshine  and  happiness !  Could  any  one  be  wretched 
in  this  beautiful  world  ?  And  then,  like  an  icy  wind,  came 
the  memory  of  Lady  Culmore.  She  had  loved  her  husband, 


41 

and  what  was  her  reward  ?  I  remembered  what  she  said 
when  I  told  her  of  my  prayer  on  Christmas-eve.  Yet,  not 
heeding  the  warning,  I  wrapped  up  my  precious  rosebud.  I 
wonder  if  ever  one  small  flower  made  any  girl  so  perfectly 
happy  before  ? 

When  I  saw  Lady  Culmore  the  next  time,  her  face  was 
pale  from  excessive  weeping,  and  I  could  not  help  wondering 
if  what  had  passed  between  us  had  roused  bitter-sweet  mem- 
ories in  her  heart. 

********* 

Dinner  was  over ;  it  had  been  the  ordinary  curious  con- 
strained meal,  with  the  usual  complete  estrangement  of  hus- 
band and  wife,  the  usual  efforts  at  cheerfulness  on  the  part 
of  Mr.  Culmore.  How  I  longed  to  get  away,  longed  for  the 
brightness  of  sunlight  and  flowers,  for  the  fresh  air  arid  out- 
door freedom. 

How  it  happened  I  cannot  fell.  I  seem  to  see  that  even- 
ing always  through  a  golden  mist.  Sir  Rudolph  was  in  his 
study,  engaged  on  some  business  about  the  estate,  Lady  Cul- 
more had  disappeared,  and  Ulric  came  to  me. 

"  Miss  Forster,"  he  said,  "  do  not  waste  this  beautiful 
evening  indoors.  Our  host  and  hostess  have  both  withdrawn. 
Let  us  enjoy  the  last  rays  of  the  sun.  Will  you  come  ?" 

Would  I  ?  My  heart  went  out  to  him  in  answer.  Whither 
could  he  have  led  that  I  would  not  have  followed? 

"  You  will  not  need  hat  or  cloak  this  lovely  evening,"  he 
continued. 

A  black  shawl  of  Lady  Culmore's  lay  on  the  couch.  He 
wrapped  it  in  Spanish  fashion  round  my  head  and  shoul- 
ders. 

"I  will  show  the  flowers  their  queen,"  he  said.  "Let  us 
leave  the  world,  with  all  its  cares  and  miseries,  behind  us, 
Miss  Forster,  and  go  for  an  hour  into  fairy-land." 

"  Where  is  fairy-land  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Wherever  we  like  to  make  it,"  he  replied.  "  We  shall 
find  ours  near  the  lake." 

Shall  I  ever  forget  the  scent  of  magnolia,  which  was  in 
full  bloom  and  filled  the  air  with  perfume  ?  Shall  I  ever  for- 
get the  cry  of  the  cushat  dove,  the  song  of  the  nightingale 
on  the  far  side  of  the  lake,  the  golden  light  on  the  water,  the 
fair  blue  sky,  the  scent  of  the  blossoms  we  crushed  beneath 
our  feet  ? 


Just  where  the  magnolia-tree,  with  its  great  white  scented 
flowers,  stood,  the  lake  formed  a  little  bay.  Lady  Culmore, 
who  had  pretty  fancies  when  she  was  not  too  miserable  to 
entertain  them,  called  it  "  Magnolia  Bay."  I  told  Mr.  Cul- 
more this,  and  he  smiled  at  the  pretty  conceit. 

"We  will  make  it  our  fairy-land,"  he  said. 

Such  an  hour  comes  only  once  in  life  ;  and  it  came,  thank 
Heaven,  then  for  me !  The  water  of  the  lake  softly  rippled 
and  kissed  the  green  banks ;  the  wind  stirred  the  magnolia- 
blossoms.  Far  away  stretched  the  rugged  brown  hills,  golden 
now  in  the  light  of  the  setting  sun.  My  lover  was  silent 
for  some  minutes,  then  he  took  both  my  hands,  looking  at 
them  earnestly. 

"You  wear  no  rings,  Miss  Forster,"  he  said. 

"  I  haven't  any,"  I  replied,  quickly.  "  Madame  gave  me 
my  mother's  wedding-ring  ;  but  it  broke." 

"  I  wonder  if  you  will  think  me  very  rude  if  I  make  one 
comment  ? "  he  continued. 

"  I  should  never  think  you  rude,"  I  answered,  "  make 
what  comment  you  might." 

"  As  you  wear  no  engagement-ring,  I  venture  to  conclude 
you  are  not  engaged  ?  " 

"  To  be  married,  do  you  mean  ? "  I  asked,  in  supreme 
wonder. 

"  Yes,  to  be  married,"  he  said. 

"  Oh,  no  !  How  could  that  be  ?  I  have  been  at  school 
all  my  life." 

"  You  have  never  had  a  lover  ? "  he  pursued. 

"  No,  never,"  I  answered. 

"  I  knew  it,"  he  said.  "  Ah,  Kate,  no  woman's  eyes  are 
ever  the  same  after  a  lover  has  looked  into  their  depths ! 
Yours  are  clear  as  the  morning  star.  No  lover  has  ever 
gazed  into  them.  Kate,  raise  them  to  mine." 

But,  instead  of  that,  I  buried  my  face  in  my  hands. 

The  birds  sang  on,  the  wavelets  broke  tranquilly  against 
the  bank,  but  above  the  song  and  the  ripple  I  heard  the  voice 
that  held  all  the  music  of  earth  for  me. 

"  Did  you  find  out  what  the  moss-rosebud  symbolized  ? 
You  must  tell  me.  Did  you  find  it  out,  Kate  ? " 

"Yes,"  I  whispered,  almost  inaudibly. 

"I  loved  you  at  first  sight,  Kate,"  he  said.  "You  were 
sitting  here  by  the  lake  when  I  saw  you.  You  do  not  know 


43 

the  charm  of  your  own  face.  Yet  you  will  learn  it  quickly 
enough  when  you  are  in  the  world  of  men.  I  could  not  im- 
agine who  you  were,  for  my  brother  had  not  told  me  of  the 
new  addition  to  his  household ;  but  I  thought  you  the  love- 
liest girl  I  had  ever  seen  ;  and,  Kate,  in  that  first  moment  my 
heart  went  out  to  you,  and  it  has  never  come  back.  I  wanted 
to  tell  you  this  days  ago,  but  I  have  hesitated  ;  you  seemed 
so  unconscious  of  it  all.  To  trouble  you  with  the  cares  of 
love  seemed  like  breaking  into  some  beautiful  sanctuary  ;  yet 
I  do  not  see  why  I  should  not  be  happy,  if  I  can.  Kate,  I 
love  you,  and  I  want  you  to  be  my  wife." 

That  was  the  answer  to  my  prayer. 

"  I  love  you  so  dearly,  so  well,  Kate,  that  I  will  devote 
my  life  to  you.  Will  you  love  me  in  return  ?  " 

I  did — Heaven  only  l.new  how  well.  But  it  occurred  to 
me  that  it  would  be  madness  for  him  to  marry  me.  I  had 
nothing  but  what  he  was  pleased  to  call  my  beauty  and  my 
loving  heart.  I  had  neither  fortune,  position,  nor  connec- 
tions, and  I  felt  sure  that  all  these  were  needful  to  him.  I 
told  him  that  he  could  not  d->  a  worse  thing  for  himself.  He 
laughed,  and  said  that  he  was  the  best  judge.  He  loved  me, 
and  nothing  else  was  of  consequence. 

I  did  not  tell  him  all — how  I  had  loved  him  from  the  first 
moment  I  had  heard  his  voice.  Some  few  details  I  kept  se- 
cret even  from  him.  We  plighted  our  troth  by  the  side  of 
the  lake — a  troth  that  has  not  been  broken,  and  never  will  be. 

His  wife  !  How  little  I  dreamed  that  I  should  ever  hear 
those  words !  I  had  loved  him  with  a  love  that  was  all  hu- 
mility. 

"  You  delight  my  eyes  just  as  you  gladden  my  heart, 
Kate,"  said  my  lover.  "  It  seems  to  me  always  as  though 
you  move  to  some  sweet  hidden  music.  You  confess  that 
you  love  me,  Kate?  " 

"  Yes ;  I  love  you,"  I  replied. 

"  And  you  promise  to  be  my  wife  ?  " 

"  Yes — If  you  really  wish  it." 

"  As  if  I  could  help  wishing  it,  Kate  !  I  am  your  first 
lover,  darling  ?  " 

"  And  my  last,"  I  said,  earnestly. 

"  That  I  believe.  No  lover  has  looked  into  your  beautiful 
eyes,  no  lover  has  kissed  your  lips — sweet  as  they  are  true  1 
May  I  have  the  first  kiss,  Kate  ? " 


44 

And  there,  in  the  glory  of  the  evening  sunset,  my  lover 
kissed  me  for  the  first  time  ;  and  that  kiss  bound  my  heart 
to  him  forever. 

The  sun  had  set,  leaving  the  water  cold  and  gray,  before 
we  remembered  how  time  was  flying.  The  birds  had  all  gone 
to  rest,  all  nature  seemed  in  repose  when  we  rose  to  return 
to  the  house. 

"  Mr.  Culmore,"  I  began. 

"  Never  '  Mr.  Culmore  '  again,  Kate,"  he  said.  "  Mine 
is  not  a  very  melodious  name,  but  you  must  try  to  use  it. 
Say  '  Ulric  '  always  when  you  speak  to  me." 

"  Ulric,'"  I  said  shyly,  "  rl^  not  tell  any  one  just  yet.  Let 
me  grow  accustomed  to  it  first." 

"  I  will  do  as  you  wish,  my  darling,"  he  said,  "  but  for  a 
short  time  only." 

And  then,  although  we  were  so  near  the  house  that  any 
one  could  see  us  from  the  windows,  he  actually  kissed  me 
again. 


CHAPTER  X. 

"  KATE,"  cried  my  lover  impatiently,  "  there  are  limits  to 
human  endurance !  " 

"  Very  small  limits  they  are  !  "  I  retorted.  "  You,  Ulric, 
are  the  most  impatient  of  men." 

The  dark  handsome  face  smiled. 

"  You  do  not  mean  it,  Kate.     If  I  thought  you  did ' 

"  You  shall  not  kiss  me  again,  Ulric  ;  I  have  made  up  my 
mind.  Yesterday,  I  am  sure,  the  gardener  saw  you." 

"  He  may  see  me  again  to-day,  !f  he  likes  !  "  laughed 
Ulric.  "  If  a  man  may  not  kiss  the  girl  whom  he  is  going  to 
marry,  pray  tell  me  whom  is  he  to  kiss  ?  " 

That  was  a  problem  I  was  unable  at  the  moment  to  solve. 

"  Strange  that  we  should  both  be  thinking  of  the  same 
thing  !  I  was  just  about  to  tell  you  that  human  endurance 
has  its  limits,  and  that  I  shall  not  bear  this  kind  of  thing 
much  longer." 

I  knew  very  well  that  "  this  kind  of  thing  "  meant  silence 


45 

as  to  our  engagement,  but  I  was  so  unwilling  to  speak  of  it. 

It  was  a  glorious  morning  at  the  end  of  June.  My  lover 
— Heaven  bless  his  handsome  head  and  dark  beautiful  face  ! 
— had  come  out  to  smoke  a  cigar  under  the  chestnut-trees. 
As  a  matter  of  course,  I  must  go  with  him.  Sir  Rudolph 
had  ridden  over  to  Ulladale  ;  Ulric  had  declined  to  accompany 
him. 

"  We  will  have  a  little  picnic  of  our  own,  Kate, "he  said, 
"  I  will  have  a  cigar  or  two,  you  shall  have  some  fruit,  and 
we  will  improve  the  shining  hours." 

It  was  absurd  to  resist,  to  make  excuses — which  I  did  hy- 
pocritically enough — for  nothing  on  earth  was  so  delightful 
to  me  as  to  be  with  him. 

"You  forget, '  I  said,  "that  I  am  Lady  Culmore's  com- 
panion." 

"  I  know  that  you  are  my  companion,"  he  said  ;  "  and  I 
shall  not  give  you  up,  either  to  Lady  Culmore  or  to  any  one 
else." 

He  arranged  a  most  comfortable  seat  for  me,  and  placed 
some  fruit  where  I  could  easily  reach  it — rich  ripe  staw- 
berries  and  purple  grapes. 

"  Now  you  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  sit  still,  Kate,  look 
charming,  and  let  me  admire  you.  Do  you  know  that  you 
look  like  the  morning  itself?  Your  eyes  are  so  bright,  and 
you  have  the  daintiest  of  colors.  Your  hair — what  dark  hair 
it  is,  Kate  ! — all  lies  in  rings  and  waves.  Altogether,  I  am 
more  in  love  than  ever  with  my  future  wife  !  " 

He  knelt 'by  my  side,  kissed  my  hands,  kissed  my  lips, 
called  me  by  every  endearing  name.  I  wondered  for  a  mo- 
ment whether  he  would  always  love  me  in  this  fashion,  or 
whether  coldness  or  estrangement  would  come  to  us  as  it 
had  come  to  Sir  Rudolph  and  Lady  Culmore. 

"  You  are  thinking  of  something  disagreeable,  Kate  ;  I 
know  it  by  the  expression  of  your  face." 

I  sighed. 

"  I  will  not  have  you  sigh,  dearest,"  said  my  lover. 
"  Sighs  must  not  pass  such  lips  as  yours — lips  made  for  smiles 
and  kisses." 

Ah,  sweet  sunny  hours,  sweeter  than  words  can  tell,  how 
quickly  they  passed,  and  how  blissful  they  were  ! 

"  I  was  saying,  Kate,"  continued  Ulric,  "  that  I  have 
come  to  the  end  of  my  endurance.  To  love  you  as  I  do, 


46 

yet  not  to  be  at  liberty  to  give  fu\}  expression  to  that  love 
is  torture.  Last  night,  when  you  were  singing,  you  looked 
so  captivating  that  I  could  hardly  refrain  from  taking  you 
in  my  arms  and  kissing  you." 

"  It  was  well  you  did  not,"  I  said,  wondering  what  Lady 
Culmore  would  have  thought. 

"  You  said,  dearest,  you  wished  me  to  keep  silence  about 
our  engagement  for  a  short  time,  because  you  wanted  to 
grow  accustomed  to  it.  Are  you  accustomed  to  it  yet  ?  " 

I  raised  my  happy  eyes  to  his  face,  and  told  him  that 
the  wonder  of  it  was  so  great  that,  if  I  lived  for  a  century, 
it  would  still  be  a  source  of  supreme  astonishment  to  me. 

"  Evidently  then  it  is  quite  useless  waiting  any  longer. 
Let  me  tell  my  brother  this  evening.  My  darling,  I  want  to 
marry  you  in  the  autumn.  Are  those  tears  in  your  eyes, 
Kate  ? " 

"  Yes,  tears  of  joy,"  I  replied.  "  I  am  so  happy,  Ulric — 
no  girl  in  the  wide  world  was  ever  happier ;  but  I  cannot  for- 
get the  misery  that  surrounds  us.  If  I  could  see  Lady  Cul- 
more less  miserable,  Sir  Rudolph  more  like  you,  I  should  not 
care.  I  know  how  it  will  be  when  we  tell  her ;  she  will  cry, 
or  say  some  of  those  terrible  things  that  one  cannot  bear  to 
hear,  and  Sir  Rudolph  will  be  colder  than  ever.  Out  here  in 
the  sunlight,  where  the  waters  shine,  the  roses  bloom,  and 
the  whole  world  is  lovely,  it  is  easy  to  be  happy  and  to  talk 
of  love  ;  but  in  that  shadowed  house,  by  that  shadowed  hearth, 
where  husband  and  wife  speak  never  a  kindly  word,  how  can 
I  ?  I  feel  that,  if  we  speak  of  our  love  there,  a  shadow  will 
fall  over  it." 

His  face  grew  grave,  the  laughter  died  from  his  eyes. 

"  I  understand,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice,  "  and  I  sympa- 
thize sincerely,  Kate,"  he  continued  after  a  time,  "  I  have 
never  liked  to  speak  to  you  about  the  matter,  but  what  can 
possibly  have  parted  those  two  ?  Do  you  know  anything 
about  it." 

"  Nothing  in  the  world,"  I  replied.  "  No  one  could  know 
less." 

"  Has  this  coldness  existed  ever  since  you  have  been 
here  ? " 

"  Yes  ;  and  it  is  that  which  makes  me  dislike  to  speak  of 
my  own  happy  love." 

"  I  have  said  nothing  about  it,"  continued  Ulric ;  "  but  I 


47 

was  never  so  shocked,  so  startled,  so  distressed  in  my  life- 
The  first  night  I  spent  here  I  thought  the  coldness  was  only 
a  passing  one — and  even  that  horrified  me  ;  but,  when  I  saw 
that  it  was  always  the  same,  that  nothing  changed  or  softened 
it,  I  was  bewildered.  Do  you  know,  Kate,  that  they  were 
once  the  most  devoted  of  lovers,  that  Rudolph  was  mad  about 
her,  and  that  she,  so  beautiful  and  graceful,  was  sought  after 
everywhere  ?  She  rejected  some  of  the  best  offers  in  England 
to  marry  Rudolph." 

"  And  now  is  he  tired  of  her  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  No,  that  is  not  it.  I  have  watched  them  closely — for  I 
would  do  anything  to  bring  about  a  different  state  of  things — 
and  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that  there  is  a  secret  be- 
tween them,  and  that  it  concerns  Nest." 

"  Of  what  nature  is  the  secret,  do  you  think,  Ulric  ? "  I 
asked. 

"  I  read  fear  and  shrinking  in  her  face,"  replied  my  lover. 
"  Evidently  she  has  done  something  which  has  made  her 
afraid  of  him.  What  it  can  be  is  a  mystery  to  me.  She  is 
so  gentle,  so  loving,  I  cannot  imagine  that  she  would  do  any- 
thing wrong.  I  am  sure  it  is  a  strong  reason  on  his  part  that 
causes  him  to  treat  her  in  this  fashion" 

"  I  pity  her  the  most,"  I  said.  "  She  loves  him  so  dearly ; 
her  whole  lue  seems  to  be  a  passion  of  love  and  pain." 

"  And  I,"  said  Ulric  slowly,  "  pity  him  the  most ;  I  see  in 
his  face  such  an  expression  of  torture.  I  know  that  he  loved 
her  so  entirely  that  his  heart  must  have  been  broken  before 
matters  came  to  this  pass." 

I  told  him  how  I  had  found  her  by  the  lakeside,  her  face 
buried  in  the  grass,  crying  to  Heaven  for  pardon — that  it 
had  been  all  for  love  of  him.  My  lover  was  silent  for  some 
time  after  that. 

"  It  seems  a  dishonorable  thing,"  I  said,  "  to  try  to  dis- 
cover a  secret  that  is  evidently  kept  from  one  ;  but,  if  any- 
thing could  be  done  to  bring  them  together  or  even  to 
re-establish  ordinary  kindness  and  civility  between  them,  it 
would  be  a  good  deed." 

Still  my  lover,  always  so  quick  of  speech,  was  silent. 

"  Kate,"  he  said,  after  a  time,  "  are  you  sure  that  Lady 
Culmore  used  these  words — '  all  for  him  '  ?  " 

"Not  once,  but  a  hundred  times,"  I  replied.  And  then  I 
saw  that  his  face  had  grown  pale. 


48 

"  'All  for  him,'  "  he  repeated.  "That  would  imply  that 
she  admitted  having  done  something  wrong,  but  that  it  was 
for  his  sake." 

"  That  is  what  I  have  always  thought,  Ulric — that  she 
did  some  wrong  for  him." 

"  What  could  she  have  done  ?  "  he  continued.  "  She 
loves  him  too  entirely  to  have  given  a  thought  to  any  one 
else." 

"  No,  she  has  never  betrayed  him  even  by  a  thought,"  I 
said.  And  I  saw  the  dark  face  grow  paler. 

"  Kate,"  asked  my  lover  solemnly,  "  have  you  ever  tried 
to  imagine  what  Lady  Culmore  could  possibly  have 
done  ?  " 

"  Never.  She  is  truthful,  or  I  might  think  that  she  had 
lied  in  some  shameful  way." 

"  But  what  could  she  have  lied  about  ?  "  asked  Ulric. 
"There  was  no  mystery  about  their  love  or  marriage;  and 
the  lie  must  have  been  a  shameful  one  which  could  part 
them." 

"  Candidly,  Ulric,  I  have  seen  no  fault  in  Lady  Culmore 
except  a  too  great  love  for  her  husband.  To  me  her  char- 
acter seems  perfect  in  every  other  respect.  I  believe  she 
loves  him  most  devotedly.  I  think  she  would  do  anything  in 
the  wide  world  for  him.  I  can  imagine  that  she  might  even 
mistake  wrong  for  right  for  his  sake.  Nay,  Ulric,  I  can  go 
further;  I  believe  that  she  loves  him  so  entirely  that  she 
would  do  wrong  for  his  sake  and  think  it  right.  Love  for 
him  is  the  master-passion  of  her  nature." 

Ulric  looked  terribly  distressed. 

"  Why,"  I  cried,  "  the  shadow  is  spreading  to  you.  You 
look  miserable.  What  is  it  ? " 

"  A  horrible  idea,"  he  replied — "  a  false  one,  I  could 
swear,  but  so  unutterably  horrible  that  it  has  made  me  ill." 

He  looked  ill. 

"  Tell  me  what  it  is,"  I  requested. 

"  I  cannot,  Kate.  To  save  my  life  I  would  not  put  into 
words  the  idea  that  has  crossed  my  mind." 

Not  only  had  his  face  grown  white,  but  his  hands  trem- 
bled. I  did  not  like  to  ask  him  any  further  questions.  He 
stamped  his  foot  impatiently. 

"  How  foolish  I  am,  Kate,"  he  cried,  "  frightening  myself 
with  a  scare-crow  !  I  must  have  a  terribly  depraved  mind  for 


49 

such  an  idea  to  cross  it.  That  is  the  worst  of  my  profession ; 
we  are  always  diving  into  motives.  Kate,  this  has  spoiled 
our  picnic.  Lei  us  forget  it." 

He  spoke  lightly;  but  it  was  in  vain;  he  could  not  for- 
get. I  saw  him  shudder  again  and  again.  He  rose  from  his 
seat,  and  paced  up  and  down  by  the  lakeside,  his  arms  fold- 
ed, his  head  bent,  intense  miser}'  on  his  face.  Truly  our 
picnic  was  spoiled.  I  went  to  him  at  last,  and  laid  my  hand 
upon  his  arm. 

"  Forgive  me,  my  darling,"  he  said.  "  I  have  a  fit  of  the 
horrors.  I  am  ashamed  of  myself.  Tell  me  one  thing  more. 
Justice  is  justice.  Tell  me,  in  all  her  raving  and  her  pray- 
ers, has  Lady  Culmore  ever  said  anything  about  a  little 
child  ?  " 

"  Why,"  I  cried  in  wonder,  "  that  is  the  very  thing  she  is 
afraid  of  'l  " 

I  told  him  of  the  scenes  which  had  occurred.  He  stood 
like  one  transfixed. 

"  Great  Heaven,"  he  said  at  last,  "  I  believe  I  am  right ! 
I  believe  with  my  whole  heart  and  soul  that  I  am  right. 
Kate,  it  is  all  over  with  our  picnic.  Come  back  to  the 
house." 


CHAPTER   XI. 

FROM  that  hour  Ulric  Culmore  was  a  changed  man.  The 
blight,  the  shadow  that  lay  over  the  others  had  spread  now 
to  him.  He  was  silent,  abstracted,  and  gloomy.  At  times 
he  seemed  to  try  hard  to  become  his  old  genial  self  again, 
but  the  attempt  always  failed. 

What  was  the  mystery  that  hung  over  Ullamere,  that 
seemed  to  blight  every  one  it  touched  ?  Something  about  a 
little  child  ;  yet  Lady  Culmore  had  had  no  children,  no  little 
brothers  and  sisters.  What  could  it  be  ?  It  seemed  useless 
thinking. 

The  change  in  my  lover  grieved  me  exceedingly.  It  was 
not  that  he  loved  me  less — I  could  see  that — but  that  his 
mind  was  so  preoccupied.  He  had  been  anxious  that  our 
engagement  should  be  made  public  ;  now  he  never  spoke  of 


5° 

it.  He  had  been  anxious  that  we  should  be  married  in  the 
autumn  ;  now  he  never  mentioned  marriage.  Yet  I  felt  quite 
sure  in  my  heart  that  it  was  not  for  want  of  love,  nor  because 
he  loved  me  less. 

One  morning — it  was  the  beginning  of  July,  and  the  tiger- 
lilies  were  all  in  bloom — he  was  standing  in  the  porch,  look- 
ing round  him  with  certainly  the  saddest  expression  1  had 
ever  seen  on  his  face.  I  went  up  to  him  and  clasped  both  my 
hands  round  his  arm. 

"  You  look  so  unhappy,  Ulric,"  I  said.  You  have  never 
been  yourself  since  the  day  of  our  picnic.  What  can  I  do  to 
win  back  the  smiles  ?  " 

"  Bear  with  me,  my  darling,"  he  said,  "  until  I  have  made 
up  my  mind  what  to  do.  Kate,"  he  added  suddenly,  "  you 
are  one  of  the  noblest  and  least  mercenary  of  women.  Has 
it  occurred  to  you  that,  if  my  brother  dies  without  children, 
the  estate  and  title  come  to  me  ?  " 

"  No,  I  have  not  thought  of  it,"  I  replied. 

"  It  is  so,"  he  said  sadly.  "  If  no  son  be  born  to  Rudolph, 
I  shall  be  Sir  Ulric  Culmore." 

He  looked  so  grave,  and  he  spoke  so  sadly,  that  I  could 
not  help  saying — 

"  You  do  not  look  very  happy  about  it,  Ulric." 

"  I  am  not,"  he  replied.  "  I — I  fear  there  has  been  a 
great  wrong  done.  If — oh,  Heaven,  how  can  I  even  say  the 
words  ? — if  what  I  dread  be  true,  I  will  take  neither  title  nor 
estate.  I  would  rather  go  out  to  the  backwoods  and  make  a 
fortune  there." 

"  Shall  you  never  tell  me  what  it  is,  Ulric  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  It  would  serve  no  purpose,  Kate,  and  would  only  im- 
bitter  your  life,"  he  replied.  "  You  say  rightly  that  I  have 
not  been  the  same  man  since  the  thought  came  to  me,  and 
it  would  be  as  bad  for  you." 

"  Are  you  always  going  to  be  miserable,  gloomy,  and  sad, 
Ulric  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Not  always,  darling,  I  hope,"  he  answered,  with  a  sigh. 

"  When  shall  you  be  your  own  self,  Ulric  ?  I  love  the  old 
self  the  best.  You  were  so  bright,  so  happy  and  blithe. 
When  will  the  Ulric  I  love  come  back  again  ?  " 

"  When  this  terrible  doubt  is  settled,"  he  replied. 

"  And  when  will  that  be  ?  "  I  asked. 

He  stood  silent  for  some  minutes,  and  then  answered — 


"  When  I  find  courage  to  speak  to  my  brother." 

"  When  shall  you  find  courage  ?  "  I  pursued  after  a  time. 

"  I  do  not  know,  Kate  ;  honestly  speaking,  I  do  not 
know.  If  I  am  correct  in  my  terrible  suspicion  then  there 
is  very  little  happiness  for  us  in  this  world.  If  I  am  not 
correct,  my  brother  will  be  so  bitterly  angry  with  me  for  the 
suspicion  that  he  will  never  forgive  me.  I  must  watch  for 
my  opportunity,  Kate." 

Later  on  that  same  day  Sir  Rudolph  called  him  into  the 
library,  and  showed  him  the  plans  for  some  alterations  at 
Brooke  Hall.  He  related  to  me  all  that  passed  between 
them. 

"  Ulric,  come,  and  look  at  these  plans,"  said  Sir  Rudolph. 
"  They  came  this  morning  from  Millsom,  in  London.  What 
do  you  thing  of  them  ?  " 

The  brothers  bent  over  the  papers.  Their  opinions  did 
not  quite  agree  ;  Sir  Rudolph  liked  one  set,  Ulric  the  other. 

"  I  shall  choose  these,"  said  Sir  Rudolph,  pointing  to  the 
set  that  Ulric  preferred. 

"  No,"  laughed  Ulric  ;  "  Brooke  Hall  belongs  to  you. 
Rudolph,  let  the  alterations  be  in  accordance  with  your  taste, 
not  with  mine." 

"  True,  Brooke  Hall  is  mine,  but  I  shall  never  live  there. 
It  will  never  be  home  to  me  any  more.  I  hate  the  place,  and 
I  intend  never  to  enter  it  again." 

"  Hate  Brooke  Hall  !  "  cried  Ulric.  "  Why,  I  thought 
you  liked  it  ?  " 

"  I  did  a  short  time  since  ;  I  do  not  now." 

"  How  has  the  place  displeased  you,  Rudolph  ?  " 

Sir  Rudolph's  face  darkened. 

"  That  does  not  matter,  Ulric,"  he  said.  I  do  not  care 
about  being  questioned.  In  the  natural  course  of  things  the 
Hall  must  come  to  you  when  I  die." 

"  Nonsense  !  You  will  have  sons  and  daughters  of  your 
own,  Rudolph.  I  have  no  wish  to  succeed  you.  My  career 
is  marked  out  for  me,  and  I  hope  to  make  myself  famous." 

Sir  Rudolph  laid  both  his  hands  on  Ulric's  shoulders,  and 
looked  into  his  face. 

"  We  haved  loved  each  other  truly,  have  we  not,  Ulric  ? " 

"  Yes,  and  shall  always  do  so,"  replied  Ulric. 

"Then  take  my  word  for  it,  brother,  that  no  son  or  daugh- 
ter of  mine  will  ever  succeed  me.  You  will  be  Sir  Ulric  Cul- 


S2 

more  of  Brooke  ;  and  I  pray  Heaven  with  my  whole  heart 
that  you  may  have  a  happier  life  than  mine." 

"  Yet,"  said  Ulric,  "  you  have  had  everything  to  make  you 
happy." 

"  Outwardly  happy,  yes.  Every  heart  knows  its  own 
secrets.  I  had  dreamed — Heaven  knows  how  I  had  dreamed 
— of  a  very  different  life  from  this." 

Then  the  brothers  faced  each  other. 

"  In  the  old  days  we  had  no  secrets  from  each  other," 
said  Ulric,  earnestly.  "  When  you  were  a  gay  careless  young 
lieutenant  and  I  a  struggling  barrister,  we  knew  each  other's 
thoughts,  Ru.  I  knew  of  your  love  for  Nest,  and  you  knew 
how  I  was  looking  for  an  ideal  that  I  have  since  found.  We 
had  not  a  secret  from  each  other.  We  stood,  true  brothers, 
heart  to  heart,  face  to  face,  no  shadow  between  us,  loving, 
loyal,  and  true.  Now,  Ru,  tell  me  what  stands  between  us." 

"  A  secret,"  answered  Sir  Rudolph. 

"  I  know  it,"  answered  Ulric.     "  Whose  secret  is  it  ?  " 

"  If  it  were  mine,"  replied  Sir  Rudolph,  "  you  would  have 
been  made  acquainted  with  it  long  ago.  It  concerns  another, 
and  I  hold  it." 

"  Can  you  not  intrust  it  to  me  ?  "  asked  Ulric. 

"  I  would,  but  the  other  who  shares  it  will  not.  Better 
far  not  to  know  it.  It  has  blighted  my  life  ;  it  might  blight 
yours." 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Ulric,  "  I  might  help  you." 

"  Impossible.  There  is  no  help.  There  is  nothing  but 
patient  endurance  until  life  ends  ;  and  the  greatest  mercy  I 
can  ask  from  Heaven  is  that  mine  may  end  soon." 

"  As  we  are  talking,  Ru,  more  in  the  old  fashion  than  the 
new,  let  me  ask  you  one  thing.  What  has  gone  wrong  between 
you  and  Nest  ? " 

Sir  Rudolph's  face  paled,  and  his  lip  quivered. 

"  I  cannot  tell  you  ;  I  would  if  I  could." 

"  Is  it  the  same  secret  that  has  blighted  your  life,  Ru  ? 
Has  it  come  between  your  wife  and  yourself  ? " 

"Yes,"  he  replied,  after  a  pause  ;  "it  is  the  same  thing." 

"And,  Ru,  will  it  always  last  ?  Shall  you  never  take 
Nest  in  your  arms  again  and  kiss  her  with  the  old  love  ?  " 

"  Never,"  he  replied — "  never,  so  help  me  Heaven  !  " 

"  Has  she  done  that  which  you  never  can  forgive,  Ru  ?  " 

"  She  has,"  he  replied.     "  I  would  not  answer  such  ques- 


S3 

tions  to  any  other  living  creature,"  said  Sir  Rudolph.  '  To 
you,  my  brother,  I  may  say  this  much — -no  more." 

"  And  shall  you  live  and  die,  Ru,  without  telling  us  what 
this  terrible  secret  is  which  has  spoiled  your  life  ?  " 

"  I  hope  so,"  he  replied.  "  It  would  do  no  one  good,  and 
would  do  much  harm." 

"  My  dear  old  Ru,"  said  Ulric,  "  are  you  quite  sure  that 
this  is  wise  ?  It  is  brotherly  love,  and  not  curiosity,  that 
prompts  me  to  speak.  Are  you  wise  in  this  ?  No  man  could 
bear  such  a  burden  long.  You  will  break  down.  Now,  while 
there  is  time,  let  me  help  you." 

"  You  cannot  help,"  he  replied  gloomily. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  your  whole  life  is  to  be 
spent  in  this  fashion — hidden  from  the  world,  blighted — nay, 
worse,  wasted  ?  It  is  inconceivable.  If  a  wrong  has  been 
done,  let  it  be  set  aright." 

"  It  can  never  be  set  aright,"  answered  Sir  Rudolph. 

"  Then  forget  it.  What  is  the  use  of  brooding  over  a 
sorrow  that  can  never  be  healed  ?  Be  brave  and  strong,  Ru. 
Trample  it  down,  live  it  down.  What  is  the  use  of  all  this 
tragical  misery  ?  Let  us  end  it." 

"  There  can  be  no  end,"  said  Sir  Rudolph,  solemnly. 
"Now,  Ulric,  we  will  discuss  the  matter  no  further." 

"  Ru,  let  me  plead  for  Nest.  I  have  never  seen  any  one 
so  unhappy.  My  heart  aches  when  I  look  at  her.  When  I 
think  of  the  laughing,  light-hearted  girl  of  three  years  ago, 
I  cannot  believe  my  eyes.  She  is  like  a  woman  dead  in  life. 
Could  you  not  relent  even  ever  so  little  ?  Could  you  not  make 
a  grand  effort  and  forgive  ?  " 

"  My  dear  Ulric,  you  mean  well ;  but  you  do  not  under- 
stand. If  you  love  me,  say  no  more.  As  it  is,  so  it  must 
remain.  And  now  about  the  plans,  Ulric  ;  you  must  de- 
cide." 

And  Ulric  did  decide,  with  tears  in  his  eyes.  He  could 
not  bear  to  think  that  his  noble,  kindly,  generous  brother 
should  suffer  so  terribly, 

Some  few  days  after  that,  I  went  one  morning  into  the 
library,  and  I  found  Lady  Culmore  standing  at  the  window. 
I  knew  that  Ulric  had  been  writing  some  letters  there.  She 
did  not  move  when  I  went  in,  and  I  did  not  disturb  her.  I 
found  my  book,  and  waited  to  see  if  she  would  speak  to  me, 
if  she  wanted  anything,  or  if  I  could  do  anything  for  her. 


S4 

I  shall  never  forget  the  white  face  that  was  turned  to 
mine. 

"  Kate,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice,  "  come  here  ;  I  want 
you." 

I  went  to  her. 

"  Have  you  noticed  any  change  in  Ulric's  manner  to 
me  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  No,"  I  answered.  "  He  has  always  seemed  very  fond  of 
you,  and  is  so  now." 

"  Then  it  must  be  my  fancy.  Please  Heaven  it  is  so  !  I 
thought  he  looked  curiously  at  me,  and  spoke  sternly." 

"There  you  must  be  wrong,"  I  said,  "  for  I  do  not  think 
Ulric  could  speak  sternly  if  he  tried.  Lady  Culmore,"  I 
added  suddenly,  "  I  wonder  how  much  of  your  trouble  is 
fancy  ? " 

"  None  of  it,"  she  answered.  "  My  trouble  is  real  enough. 
The  most  intolerable  part  of  it  is  that  I  wake  at  times  and 
for  a  few  minutes  believe  it  is  all  a  dream.  How  I  dread  the 
gradual  growing  certainty  !  I  love  Ulric,  Kate,"  she  added, 
mournfully  ;  "  I  should  not  like  him  to  grow  cold  to  me." 

"  Why  should  he,  Lady  Culmore  ?  "  I  asked. 

"I  cannot  tell  ;  but  there  has  been  something  I  have  not 
liked,  something  I  never  saw  in  his  eyes  before,  although  I 
have  seen  it  in  Rudolph's  often." 

I  wondered  if  Ulric  still  had  the  same  idea  or  suspicion 
that  he  had  spoken  of  to  me,  and  if  it  was  that  which  had 
affected  his  manner  to  her. 


CHAPTER    XII. 

LATELY  we  had  one  visitor  at  Ullamere,  and  that  was  the 
Reverend  John  Thornleigh,  Rector  of  Ulladale,  though  why 
he  came  I  could  not  imagine.  I  was  the  only  member  of  the 
household  who  went  to  church  ;  the  servants  were,  one  and 
all,  Dissenters — even  the  old  butler  ;  yet  the  rector  persisted 
in  calling.  He  and  I  had  become  very  good  friends.  He  liked 
to  talk  to  me.  I  knew  afterward  that  he  loved  me,  and  would 
have  asked  me  to  be  his  wife  but  that  he  heard  of  my  engage- 
ment. 


55 

His  wife  was  dead — had  died  when  his  only  son  was  born ; 
and  nothing  seemed  to  give  him  such  comfort  as  talking 
to  me  about  her.  When  the  rector  was  announced,  if  by  any 
accident  we  were  all  three  together,  Sir  Rudolph  and  Lady 
Culmore  would  remain  for  a  short  time.  It  was  a  great  em- 
barrassment to  the  rector — I  could  see  that.  Apart  he  could 
talk  to  them,  but  together,  he  looked  in  a  state  of  bewilder- 
ment from  one  to  the  other.  He  saw  plainly  enough  the 
terms  on  which  they  lived  ;  that  no  necessary  word  ever 
passed  between  them  ;  that  strangers  could  not  be  less  to  each 
other  than  this  husband  and  wife.  He  saw  that  all  efforts 
to  draw  them  nearer  together  were  quite  unavailing.  It  was 
distressing  to  him,  and,  unlike  myself,  he  never  became  ac- 
customed to  it.  I  did.  At  first  it  was  uncomfortable  enough  ; 
but,  from  force  of  habit,  the  time  came  when  I  could  carry 
on  a  conversation  with  both  at  the  same  time,  without  the 
slightest  embarrassment.  The  rector  could  not.  He  grew 
confused  ;  he  appealed  from  one  to  the  other.  His  appeals 
were  met  with  stern  coldness  by  Sir  Rudolph,  with  an  excess 
of  embarrassment  by  Lady  Culmore.  Of  the  two  he  liked 
Lady  Culmore  best.  She  was  always  most  kind  to  him,  and 
ready  to  help  his  charitable  work  when  he  needed  it. 

I  was  present  once  when  he  said  to  her — 

"  Lady  Culmore,  do  you  never  attend  any  place  of  wor- 
ship ? " 

And  she  made  answer,  "  Never." 

The  rector  was  a  good  man.  He  had  a  real  love  for  his 
profession.  Moreover,  he  was  clever  and  accomplished.  He 
looked  just  a  little  shocked  when  Lady  Culmore  answered 
thus. 

"  Do  you  not  think,"  he  began.    But  she  interrupted  him. 

"  If  you  please,  Mr.  Thornleigh,  we  will  not  discuss  the 
matter.  I  yield  at  once.  I  am  quite  sure  that  every  one 
ought  to  go  to  some  place  of  worship.  I  have  my  own 
reasons  for  staying  away,  and  they  are  known  only  to  One." 

What  could  any  man  say  in  answer  to  that  ?  " 

Then  the  rector  grew  more  confidential  with  me.  He 
talked  a  great  deal  about  Sir  Rudolph  and  Lady  Culmore. 
They  were  two  of  the  pleasantest  people  he  had  ever  met,  he 
said,  and  he  deeply  deplored  the  terrible  estrangement  be- 
tween them.  Like  every  one  else  who  knew  them,  he 
wondered  greatly  what  had  caused  it.  He  was  a  true  friend 


56 

of  theirs,  and,  knowing  that,  we  talked  always  in  the  hope 
that  we  might  be  able  to  do  something.  But,  after  a  time,  I 
saw  that  it  was  impracticable  ;  there  was  nothing  to  be  done. 

The  rector  never  tired  of  talking  to  me  about  his  little 
child.  I  went  to  see  him  at  the  Rectory.  On  my  return  I 
told  Lady  Culmore  all  about  his  sweet  baby  ways. 

"  Do  ask  him  here,  Lady  Culmore."  I  said.  "  You  can- 
not think  how  the  presence  of  a  child  brightens  the  house. 
These  rooms  would  be  very  different  with  a  child  playing 
and  laughing,  or  even  crying  in  them.  Do  ask  him,  Lady 
Culmore,"  I  urged ;  "  I  am  sure  it  would  cheer  and  amuse 
you." 

She  grew  very  pale — so  pale  that  I  thought  she  would 
swoon. 

"  My  dear,  it  would  simply  kill  me,"  she  replied. 

"  How  could  the  visit  of  a  sweet  little  boy  like  little  Willie 
hurt  you  ?  "  I  asked,  in  some  surprise. 

She  made  no  answer  to  the  question,  and  I  continued — 

"  It  would  please  Sir  Rudolph,  I  am  sure." 

"  It  would  not,"  she  cried  ;  "you  are  quite  mistaken.  It 

would "  Then  she  stopped  abruptly.  "  No,  Miss 

Forster ;  if  you  wish  me  well,  never  let  any  children  come  to 
Ullamere." 

"  Do  you  not  like  children  ?  "  I  asked. 

"Yes,"  she  answered  wearily.  "  I  suppose  it  is  part  of 
the  nature  of  all  women  to  love  them." 

"  I  am  not  quite  sure  of  that,  Lady  Culmore,"  I  answered. 
"  I  have  seen  and  known  women  who  did  not  like  children 
at  all." 

So  I  relinquished  my  idea. 

I  was  with  Sir  Rudolph  and  Lady  Culmore  another  day, 
when  the  rector  came  to  ask  their  help.  It  was  for  a  poor 
woman  whose  child  was  very  ill,  and  the  rector  dwelt  much 
on  the  child's  sufferings. 

"  It  seems  to  me  such  an  awful  thing,"  he  said,  "for  a 
little  child  to  die  of  want." 

He  did  not  perceive,  as  I  did,  how  the  expression  of  both 
his  listeners'  faces  changed,  Sir  Rudolph's  growing  stony 
and  cold,  Lady  Culmore's  wearing  that  terribly  embarrassed 
air  that  came  over  her  at  times.  I  hastened  to  speak, 
hoping  that  I  should  turn  the  tide  of  conversation. 

"  I  do  not  think  it  worse  for  a  child  to  die  of  want  than 
for  a  grown-up  person  so  to  die." 


57 

The  rector  shook  his  head. 

"  I  have  a  theory  of  my  own  about  the  death  of  infants," 
he  said. 

Thinking  to  divert  the  conversation  from  what  might  be 
a  dangerous  channel,  I  said  quickly — 

"  What  is  your  theory,  Mr.  Thornleigh  ?  " 

"  It  is  this,  Miss  Forster.  In  the  case  of  grown-up  men 
and  women,  you  know  the  extent  of  their  capabilities — you 
know  exactly  what  they  are  ;  they  may  be  clever,  they  may  be 
the  reverse.  But,  if  an  infant  dies,  you  do  not  know  what 
loss  the  world  sustains  ;  he  may  be  an  embryo  Milton  or 
Shakespeare.  So  the  death  of  a  child,  it  seems  to  me,  is 
much  sadder  than  that  of  a  grown-up  person." 

There  was  something  certainly  in  this  view  of  the  case  ; 
and  I  was  so  much  interested  in  it  that  for  a  few  moments  I 
forgot  Lady  Culmore.  A  deep  sigh  drew  my  attention  to 
her.  I  saw  her  turn  away  from  us  with  a  look  of  such  in- 
tense anguish  on  her  face  as  I  had  never  seen  on  human  face 
before,  while  Sir  Rudolph  had  grown  white  as  death. 

I  hastened  to  say  that  this  was  a  new  idea  to  me,  that  I 
had  always  thought  adult  life  the  more  valuable  ;  then  I 
asked  the  rector  some  idle  question  about  the  bell-ringers, 
and  Sir  Rudolph  made  his  escape.  Lady  Culmore  seemed 
to  breathe  more  freely  after  he  had  gone,  and  the  rector 
received  all  that  he  desired.  Thinking  over  one  inci- 
dent after  another,  it  seemed  clear  to  me  that,  whatever  was 
the  secret,  the  tragedy,  the  mystery  of  Lady  Culmore's  life, 
it  was  connected  with  a  little  child. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

A  MOST  unexpected  event  happened  ere  long — the  rector 
was  invited  to  dinner.  It  appears  a  trivial  incident  in  itself, 
hardly  worth  recording,  but  it  led  to  greater  events.  It 
must  have  been  at  Ulric's  suggestion.  Sir  Rudolph  never 
asked  any  human  being  near  the  place,  and  Lady  Culmore 
dreaded  seeing  any  one.  I  may  mention  that  Ulric  had  pre- 
tended to  be  dreadfully  jealous  of  the  rector  and  his  baby- 


58 

son,  and  that  I  was  both  young  and  foolish  enough  to  be 
flattered  by  his  jealousy,  and  thought  it  a  great  thing  to  have 
such  a  tall  handsome  man  jealous  about  me. 

One  bright  sunny  morning,  when  I  was  starting  with 
Ulric  for  the  lake,  the  rector  was  announced,  and  I  was 
obliged  to  stay  and  entertain  him — neither  the  master  nor 
the  mistress  of  the  house  was  to  be  seen.  Ulric's  face 
darkened. 

"  Is  there  really  no  one  but  you,  Kate,  to  entertain 
visitors  ?  The  rector  is  what  you  ladies  call  '  such  a  hand- 
some man  ! '  Do  not  stay  long,  dear.  Think  of  the  pleasant 
time  we  shall  have,  the  boat  gliding  over  the  lake  among  the 
water-lilies — a  delightful  prospect  for  a  warm  day." 

"  I  must  hear  what  he  has  to  say,  Uric,"  I  remonstrated. 

As  it  happened,  the  rector  had  a  great  deal  to  say.  He 
was  very  anxious  about  the  inhabitants  of  Ulladale.  The 
town  was  very  unhealthy ;  and,  as  Sir  Rudolph  owned  a 
great  deal  of  property  there,  he  wished  to  see  him  and  talk 
to  him  about  it.  Some  of  the  houses,  the  rector  said,  were 
so  badly  built,  so  badly  ventilated,  that  they  were  neither 
more  nor  less  than  traps  for  fever  and  death. 

"  Do  not  think  that  I  am  an  alarmist,"  he  added  ;  "  but, 
Miss  Forster,  if  fever  does  break  out  there,  it  will  be  fatal  to 
many." 

I  advised  him  to  see  Sir  Rudolph.  So  it  came  about  that 
the  rector  was  invited  to  dinner — an  event  in  the  Ullamere 
household. 

It  was  a  warm  day.  The  air  was  faint  with  the  breath  of 
roses,  heavy  and  still ;  there  was  no  movement  in  the  sprays 
of  the  jasmine.  That  evening  Lady  Culmore  looked  most 
beautiful.  She  wore  a  dress  of  white  lace  trimmed  with 
green  leaves  and  long  trailing  grasses  ;  a  diamond  star  shone 
in  her  fair  hair,  a  diamond  cross  lay  on  her  white  breast. 
She  had  dressed,  as  usual,  to  charm  the  eyes  of  her  husband, 
and  they  never  even  rested  on  her. 

To  please  my  lover,  T  wore  a  pretty  primrose  silk  cut 
square,  with  short  sleeves.  I  had  beautiful  white  rounded 
arms,  he  said,  and  insisted  on  my  showing  them  ;  they  were 
made  to  be  admired,  and  he  would  not  have  them  hidden. 

That  was  the  most  cheerfql  dinner  I  remember  at  Ulla- 
mere. The  unnatural  coldness  and  silence  of  husband  and 
wife  were  not  noticed  so  much  when  there  was  a  visitor 


59 

present.  The  rector  had  plenty  to  say,  Ulric  was  in  better 
spirits  than  I  had  seen  him  for  some  time. 

Suddenly — I  cannot  remember  how  it  began — the  con- 
versation turned  on  capital  punishment,  and  the  rector 
quoted  the  well  known  words  that  "  the  worst  use  to  which 
you  can  put  a  man  is  to  hang  him."  I  noticed  that  at  first 
neither  Sir  Rudolph  nor  Lady  Culmore  joined  in  the  conver- 
sation. They  sat  listening  in  silence,  Sir  Rudolph  looking 
paler  than  usual,  Lady  Culmore  with  an  unusual  flush  on  her 
beautiful  face.  The  rector  and  Ulric  argued  the  question 
hotly,  Ulric  being  in  favor  of  and  the  rector  against  the  pun- 
ishment of  death. 

"  I  have  often  thought,"  said  the  rector,  "  that  those 
words,  '  a  life  for  a  life,'  are  capable  of  many  interpreta- 
tions." 

"  Do  you  not  believe,"  asked  Ulric,  "  that  the  man  who 
deliberately  takes  a  human  life  should  pay  the  penalty  of  his 
crime  with  his  own  ? "  . 

"  No,  I  do  not,"  replied  the  rector.  "  Men  are  such 
strange  mixtures  of  good  and  evil.  I  do  not  see  the  use  of 
hanging  a  man.  It  does  no  good  ;  it  cannot  restore  the 
dead  to  life." 

"It  deters  others  from  committing  the  same  crime,"  de- 
clared Uliic. 

"  I  do  not  think  so,"  said  the  rector.  "When  a  man  in 
the  heat  of  passion  kills  another,  he  does  not  stop  to  think 
about  the  last  execution." 

"  Opinions  differ,"  said  Ulric.  "  Where  life  is  taken  in 
the  mad  heat  of  passion,  it  is  perhaps  hardly  murder.  It  is 
when  life  is  taken  after  cool,  calm  deliberation,  after  thought 
and  reflection,  that  I  call  the  deed  murder." 

The  word  fell  painfully  on  our  ears. 

"It  is  a  horrible  word — 'murder,'"  I  said.  "The  very 
sound  of  it  is  terrible." 

"  I  read  a  strange  story  the  other  day,"  said  the  rector, 
"  one  that  struck  me  very  forcibly.  A  man  murdered  his 
wife,  how  or  why  I  forget  ;  she  had  given  him  some  provoca- 
tion perhaps.  He  ran  away,  when,  of  course,  a  '  hue  and 
cry  '  was  sent  out,  and  the  police  were  soon  after  him.  He 
had  hidden  himself  in  a  low  part  of  the  town,  and  in  the 
very  house  where  he  was  concealed  a  terrible  fire  occurred. 
A  poor  woman  was  sleeping  in  one  of  the  upper  rooms,  and 


6o 

her  cries  were  heard.  This  man  who  had  murdered  his  wife 
risked,  absolutely  risked  his  life  to  save  the  woman  who  was 
a  stranger  to  him.  He  rushed  through  the  flames  and  suf- 
focating smoke  ;  the  hair  was  burned  from  his  head,  his  face 
and  hands  suffered,  but  he  saved  her  life.  While  she  was  in 
the  act  of  blessing  and  thanking  him  for  it,  the  police  capt- 
ured him.  '  You  will  hang  me  for  killing  my  wife,'  he  said 
to  them.  '  I  killed  her  because  she  provoked  me  ;  but  I  am 
sorry  for  it.5  Some  one  present  quoted  the  words,  '  A 
life  for  a  life.'  '  That  is  Scripture,'  said  the  man  Imly.  '  I 
have  literally  fulfilled  it.  I  killed  my  wife,  but  I  have  given 
life  to  this  woman,  inasmuch  as  I  have  saved  her  from  death. 
Truly  it  is  a  life  for  a  life.'  The  story  struck  me  as  being  a 
strange  one,"  added  the  rector. 

Something  induced  me  to  look  at  Lady  Culmore's  face. 
Her  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  rector's  face  ;  she  hung  upon  each 
word  that  fell  from  his  lips.  There  was  a  strange  light  in 
her  eyes  that  I  had  never  seen  there  before. 

"  Yes,"  said  Ulric  ;  "  but  the  man  was  mistaken.  The 
proper  reading  of  the  words  is  that  whosoever  takes  a  man's 
life  shall  pay  for  it  with  his  own." 

"  If  one  life  pays  for  another,"  Lady  Culmore  broke  in, 
"  how  can  it  matter  whose  life  it  is  ?  " 

Every  one  looked  up  in  wonder.  Her  clear,  sweet  tones 
vibrated  through  the  room,  her  beautiful  face  was  flushed. 
Sir  Rudolph  regarded  her  in  astonishment.  She  went  on — 

"  Tf  any  one  takes  a  life  and  gives  a  life,  does  not  that 
equalize  matters  ?  "  she  asked  ;  and  I  detected  something  of 
scornful  bitterness  in  her  voice.  "  If  the  life  given  be  more 
valuable  than  the  life  taken,  does  not  that  more  than  dis- 
charge the  debt  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  the  rector,  in  a  distinct  voice  that  seemed  to 
startle  us — "  no.  That  is  the  view  of  a  distorted  mind,  Lady 
Culmore,  of  one  that  does  not  distinguish  clearly  between 
right  and  wrong." 

I  saw  her  shrink  as  she  would  have  shrunk  from  a  blow. 

"  What  a  gloomy  conversation  !  "  cried  Ulric  suddenly. 
"  How  can  we  have  drifted  into  it  ?  Let  us  dismiss  the  sub- 
ject. Lady  Culmore,  you  ought  to  have  dismissed  us." 

"  I  have  been  greatly  interested,"  she  said  ;  and  again 
there  was  something  new  and  strange  in  her  voice,  while  the 
light  still  flashed  in  her  eyes. 


6i 

During  the  long  discussion  husband  and  wife  hardly 
looked  at  each  other,  But  at  the  words  "  a  life  for  a  life  " 
I  saw  Lady  Culmore  raise  her  eyes  and  fix  them  on  her 
husband's  face.  Who  could  read  them  with  their  messages 
of  love,  regret,  and  hope  ? 

So  the  evening  passed;  and,  when  the  rector  had  gone, 
Sir  Rudolph,  witht  a  hasty  "  Good  night,"  retired  also.  Lady 
Culmore,  who  seemed  quite  abstracted,  walked  to  the  window 
and  drew  the  blind  aside.  She  stood  there  looking  out  into 
the  darkness. 

"  Kate,"  whispered  my  lover,  "  come  here  ;  I  want  you  ; " 
and  we  went  into  the  conservatory  which  was  dimly  lighted. 
"  My  dear  " — with  a  quiet  caress — "  you  have  behaved  won- 
derfully well  this  evening." 

"  I  always  behave  well,  Ulric." 

"  You  did  not  flirt  with  the  rector  at  all,  and  I  must  make 
full  amends.  He  has  a  fine  face  ;  he  argues  well  too.  Kate, 
I  am  sure  that  he  admires  you.  Does  the  bracelet  fit,  dar- 
ling ?  " 

This  was  merely  an  excuse  to  hold  up  my  arm  and  kiss 
it.  I  pointed  to  Lady  Culmore  standing  at  the  window. 

"  She  will  not  see  me,"  said  Ulric  ;  "  and  if  she  does,  it 
will  not  matter.  Fancy,  dearest,  what  I  suffer,  sitting  all 
night  watching  your  beautiful  face,  and  never  able  to  kiss  the 
lips  I  love  or  gaze  into  the  eyes  that  hold  all  bliss  for  me. 
Kate,  I  must  be  indemnified  !" 

It  was  useless  pointing  to  Lady  Culmore.  It  was  useless 
to  do  or  say  anything  ;  and,  to  be  quite  honest,  perhaps  I  did 
not  mind  so  very  much. 

"  Remember,"  said  my  lover,  with  a  flush  on  his  handsome 
face — "  remember  that  I  shall  speak  to  my  brother  to-mor- 
row. I  will  not  put  up  with  another  day's  delay." 

He  bade  me  "  Good  night,"  in  his  usual  lover-like  fashion, 
and  went  away.  Then  I  crossed  over  to  Lady  Culmore. 
She  turned  to  me  when  I  spoke  to  her. 

"  Oh,  my  dear,"  she  said,  "  who  is  it  ? " 

"  Who  is  what  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  You  should  see  your  own  face,  Kate  ;  you  should  see 
your  own  eyes.  As  we  stand  side  by  side,  you  are  the  very 
picture  of  happiness,  as  I  am  the  picture  of  woe." 

I  was  ashamed  of  myself.  I  wished  that  I  could  drive 
the  light  of  happiness  from  my  face  and  eyes. 


62 

"  I  am  haunted,"  she  said,  "  those  words,  '  a  life  for  a 
life.'  What  a  strange  conversation  that  was,  Kate  !  " 

"  Neither  cheerful  nor  pleasant,"  I  replied.  "  And,  if  I 
were  you,  Lady  Culmore,  I  would  forget  all  about  it." 

"  I  wish,"  she  cried,  passionately,  "  that  I  could  forget 
all  about  myself,  even  to  my  very  name  !  " 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

ULRIC  had  no  chance  of  fulfilling  his  threat  on  the  follow- 
ing day,  for  Sir  Rudolph  rode  off  early  in  the  morning  to 
Ulladale,  to  inspect  the  houses  of  which  the  rector  had 
spoken.  The  heat  was  intense.  The  heavens  were  like 
molten  brass.  The  white  lilies  drooped,  the  roses  hung 
their  heads  ;  the  birds  had  hidden  themselves  in  their  leafy 
coverts  ;  there  was  not  a  ripple  on  the  lake,  not  a  whisper 
of  wind  from  the  mountain-tops  to  relieve  the  settled  intense 
heat. 

"  I  wish  Sir  Rudolph  had  not  gone  to  Ulladale  to-day," 
said  Lady  Culmore  ;  "  it  is  so  hot,  and  he  will  be  in  and  out 
of  these  horrible  houses.  I  shall  be  miserable  about  him. 
I  have  such  a  sense  of  coming  sorrow  on  me." 

Ulric  laughed. 

"  Now,  Nest,  we  will  not  have  that.  Things  are  bad 
enough  ;  we  will  not  have  any  foreboding  of  coming  sorrow." 

"  I  cannot  help  it,"  she  said,  with  pale,  trembling  lips. 

It  was  a  long  quiet  day.  Ulric  and  I  spent  the  morning 
under  the  cedar.  He  read  and  I  worked,  with  various  little 
happy  interludes. 

Night  came,  and  Sir  Rudolph  returned  in  safety.  Al 
though  Lady  Culmore  had  been  anxious  concerning  him  all 
day,  she  did  not  go  out  to  meet  him ;  she  gave  utterance  to 
none  of  the  joy  she  felt  at  seeing  him ;  but  I  saw  that  her 
whole  heart  went  out  to  him,  though  she  repressed  all  outward 
sign  of  emotion. 

Dinner  was  an  utter  failure  ;  no  one  was  hungry,  no  one 
could  eat.  Even  Ulric  succumbed  to  the  heat,  and  had  little 
to  say. 


In  the  drawing-room  afterward,  Lady  Culmore,  in  her 
white  dress,  seated  herself  in  the  shadow.  Sir  Rudolph 
opened  the  windows  wide,  and. pushed  away  the  hangings. 

"  Let  us  have  what  little  air  there  is,"  he  said. 

"  Kate,"  exclaimed  Ulric,  suddenly,  "  sing  for  us.  I 
found  a  quaint  song  the  other  day,  and  I  brought  it  home 
with  me." 

He  placed  it  on  the  piano,  and  I  sang  it.  It  was  called 
"  Two  Pictures." 

"  I  sat  in  the  gathering  shadows, 

And  I  looked  to  tho  west  away; 
There  the  hand  of  an  unseen  artist 

Was  painting,  at  close  of  day, 
A  strange  and  beautiful  picture 

That  filled  my  soul  with  awe, 
And  made  men  think  of  the  city 

No  mortals  ever  saw. 

'  Paint  me,  O  wonderful  artist,' 

I  cried,  when  the  shadows  came, 
And  hid  the  marvelous  glory 

Of  the  western  hills  aflame — 
'  Paint  me  the  face  of  an  angel  ! ' 

And,  lo,  before  my  eyes 
Was  the  face  of  my  sainted  mother 

Who  dwells  in  Paradise  I 

"  Paint  me  the  face  of  a  sinner  1  " 

A  darker  shadow  swept 
Down  the  hills,  and  I  thought,  in  the  twilight, 

The  unseen  artist  wept; 
And,  lo,  from  a  magical  pencil 

A  face  in  a  moment  had  grown, 
The  sad  white  face  of  a  sinner, 

And  I  knew  it  for  my  own  I  " 

Two  white  hands  were  laid  gently  upon  my  shoulder,  and 
a  tearful  voice  whispered — 

"  Kate,  do  you  love  me  ?  " 

"  You  know  that  I  do,  Lady  Culmore,"  I  replied. 

"  Then  do  not  sing  another  note  ;  I  cannot  bear  it.  I  used 
to  sing  once.  My  voice,  they  said,  was  sweet  and  clear  as  a 
silver  bell ;  and  I  loved  music." 

"  I  have  never  heard  you  sing,  Lady  Culmore,"  I  said. 

"  I  have  not  sung  a  note  since — since  we  came  here,"  she 
returned ;  "  and  I  never  shall  sing  again,"  And  then  we 
parted  for  the  night, 


64 

The  rector  had  not  been  near  us  all  day,  nor  had  we  had 
any  news  of  little  Willie  ;  but  on  the  following  morning, 
when  we  sat  at  breakfast,  all  four  together,  for  a  wonder,  he 
was  announced.  He  came  in  looking  very  anxious,  with  dark 
shadows  beneath  his  eyes.  Before  he  greeted  us  he  cried,  in 
a  distressed  voice — 

"  Little  Willie  is  very  ill." 

We  were  all  grieved.  The  poor  rector  seemed  heart- 
broken. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  asked  Ulric.  "  One  must  not  at- 
tach too  much  importance  to  the  ailments  of  children.  They 
seem  to  be  at  death's  door  one  day,  and  they  are  quite  well 
again  the  next." 

"  Yes  ;  but  he  is  very  ill,"  said  the  rector  gravely.  "  I  was 
sent  for  early  this  morning  to  visit  the  poor  woman  who  lives 
by  the  west  lake.  As  I  was  returning,  I  met  Dr.  Johnston, 
who  had  just  been  to  see  my  little  boy,  and  he  tells  me  that 
he  is  very  ill  indeed.  I  thought  I  would  call  here,  and  ask 
you  to  let  the  groom  drive  me  home.  I  shall  reach  the  Rec- 
tory so  much  more  quickly." 

Sir  Rudolph  insisted  on  driving  him  himself ;  and  he  left 
us  all  very  sorrowful. 

That  evening  we  were  just  finishing  dinner,  when  a  note 
came  from  the  Rectory  which  was  addressed  to  me.  It  told 
the  terrible  news  that  little  Willie  was  ill  of  small-pox  of  the 
malignant  type.  The  nurse  had  taken  him  to  some  cottage 
where  a  woman  lay  stricken  with  it,  and  the  child  had  caught 
the  contagion.  To  add  to  the  rector's  distress,  the  nurse  had 
fled  from  the  house  when  she  discovered  what  was  the  matter ; 
the  young  housemaid,  afraid  of  losing  her  good  looks,  also 
left  at  once,  and  there  was  no  one  to  attend  to  his  darling  boy 
but  the  old  housekeeper.  I  read  the  letter  aloud,  and  then 
rose  from  my  chair. 

"  Lady  Culmore,"  I  said,  "  will  you  let  me  go  to  the  Rec- 
tory ?  I  will  nurse  the  child ;  I  am  not  afraid,  and  I  love 
little  Willie.  He  must  not  want  for  care." 

Ah,  there  was  the  same  strange  light  on  her  beautiful  face 
that  I  had  remarked  before,  the  same  clear  unearthly  radiance 
in  her  eyes ! 

"  No,"  she  replied,  "  I  will  not  let  you  go,  Kate.  If  it  be 
really  malignant  small-pox,  it  is  very  contagious,  and  generally 
fatal." 


65 

A  strong  arm  was  thrown  around  me ;  I  felt  myself  drawn 
close  to  a  faithful  loving  heart. 

"  You  are  not  your  own  to  do  what  you  like  with.  You 
are  mine,  and  I  forbid  you  to  go." 

I  clung  to  Ulric,  weeping. 

"The  little  child — I  must  go  to  the  little  child!"  I 
sobbed. 

"  You  shall  not  go  near  it,"  he  said.  "You  are  mine. 
There  are  plenty  of  clever  trained  nurses  who  can  do  the 
work  better  than  you.  I  will  not  let  you  risk  your  life." 

We  have  forgotten  the  presence  of  others  ;  we  had  forgotten 
everything  except  each  other.  An  astonished  cry  from  Lady 
Culmore  roused  me. 

"  Ulric  ! — Kate  !  "  she  exclaimed. 

My  lover  raised  his  dark  handsome  flushed  face. 

"  I  forgot,"  he  said.  "  I  was  going  to  tell  you  this  morn- 
ing. You  know  nothing  of  this.  Rudolph,  my  brother, 

Nest" 1  noticed,  even  at  that  moment,  that  he  did  not 

say,  "  Nest,  my  sister  " — "  I  love  Kate,  and  she  has  promised 
to  be  my  wife." 

The  next  moment  Sir  Rudolph  had  crossed  the  room,  and, 
taking  me  from  Ulric's  arms,  kissed  me. 

"  A  good  and  charming  wife  you  will  have,  Ulric,"  he 
said  ;  and  then  a  great  sadness  came  over  his  face.  I  knew  he 
was  thinking  of  the  time  when  he  had  made  choice  of  a  wife. 

Lady  Culmore  came  up  to  me  hurriedly. 

"  Kate,  I  half  guessed  it.  I  was  sure  you  loved  some 
one ;  I  have  seen  such  a  love-light  in  your  eyes.  I  am  very 
glad  it  is  Ulric,  for  he  will  be  so  good  to  you." 

She  threw  her  arms  around  me,  and,  as  she  kissed  me.  I 
heard  her  sigh.  Neither  husband  nor  wife  looked  at  each 
other.  On  Sir  Rudolph's  face  there  was  an  expression  of 
great  relief. 

"Your  news  is  good  news  to  me,  Ulric,"  he  said — "very 
good  news.  Welcome,  Kate  ! " — to  me.  And  for  the  first 
time  I  noticed  toleration  in  his  eyes  when  he  looked  at  Lady 
Culmore. 

I  thanked  them  for  their  kindly  greeting,  resolving  in 
my  heart  that  I  would  be  a  true  and  loving  sister  to  them. 

"  But  little  Willie,"  I  said — "  we  must  not  forget  him. 
You  who  love  me  let  me  go  to  nurse  him.  I  shall  come  back 
soon  ;  I  am  not  afraid.  The  little  one  will  die  without 
c*rt." 


66 

"  Once  and  for  all,  I  say  '  No  !  "  cried  Ulric.  "  You  shall 
not  go.  I  am  sorry  for  the  rector,  sorry  from  my  heart  for 
the  child  ;  but  I  cannot  sacrifice  you  for  them.  What  do 
you  say,  Rudolph  ?  " 

"  I  say  decidedly  that  she  must  not  go,"  replied  Sir  Ru- 
dolph. "  I  will  not  hear  of  it." 

Then  Lady  Culmore  came  to  us. 

"  No,  you  must  not  go,  Kate.  For  you  are  love,  life,  and 

brightness  ;  for  me Ah,  well,  dear,  you  would  fill  any 

station  far  better  than  I  should !  I  will  go  to  nurse  the 
sick  child." 

She  turned  to  her  husband,  her  face  eagerly  expectant. 
She  went  up  to  him  with  clasped  hands.  She  did  not  touch 
him  ;  one  rebuff  had  been  enough  for  her. 

"  Heaven  has  sent  me  this  chance,"  she  said.  "  You  see 
it  for  yourself.  Oh,  let  me  go  !  Do  not  refuse  rne,  Ru- 
dolph. It  is  my  first  prayer  to  you  since ' 

"  Hush  !  "  he  said,  but  not  unkindly.     "  Hush  !  " 

"  Let  me  go,  Rudolph  !  "  she  cried.  "  Heaven  has  sent 
me  this  chance  ;  let  me  avail  myself  of  it.  You  know,  you 
know" — and,  as  she  bent  her  head  near  him  I  heard  her  say, 
"  'a  life  for  a  life.'  Let  me  save  this  one  ;  let  me  give  mine 
for  it,  if  needs  must  be  !  Say  that  I  may  go,  Rudolph  ! " 

Still  he  hesitated,  and  a  look  came  into  his  eyes  that  I 
had  never  seen  there  before.  He  must  have  loved  her  with 
desperate  passion  once. 

"  You  ask  me  to  let  you  go  to  certain  death.  Do  you 
know  that  ? " 

"  Yes,  I  know ;  but  I  may  save  a  life.  In  any  case,  I 
shall  offer  mine  for  it.  And,  if  I  die,  you  will  forgive  me  ? 
Ah,  do  not  turn  from  me,  Rudolph,  beloved ;  do  not  be 
angry  with  me  !  You  will  forgive  me  when  I  lie  dying ;  and 
Heaven  will  be  good  to  me,  and  let  me  die  when  I  am  look- 
ing on  your  face.  Oh,  beloved,  I  will  die  a  hundred  deaths 
for  one  word  of  pardon  from  you — a  hundred  deaths  ! " 

His  eyes  were  full  of  tears.  I  saw  that  he  dared  not 
trust  himself  to  speak. 

"  Certain  death  has  no  fear  for  me  with  the  prospect  of 
your  forgiveness  and  a  farewell  from  you  when  I  lie  in  the 
dark  shadow.  Oh,  beloved,  what  is  my  life  but  living  death  ? 
Oh,  love,  if  I  loved  you  less,  I  should  suffer  less  !  May  I 


When  1  asked  the  question,  he  had  ansvvefed  promptly, 
"  No ;  "  when  she  asked  it,  he  hesitated.  Yet  from  that  mo- 
ment I  knew  that  he  loved  her  with  his  whole  soul.  What 
could  possibly  have  come  between  these  two  who  loved  each 
other  with  so  great  a  love  ?  Ulric  and  I  looked  on  fascinated. 
They  forgot  us. 

"  Think,"  she  said  to  him,"  what  an  atonement  it  will  be  ! 
When  you  remember,  my  sin,  you  will  remember  also  the 
amends  I  tried  to  make.  Ah,  beloved,"  she  cried,  bursting 
into  passionate  tears,  "you  told  me  yourself  you  could  love 
me  no  more  in  life,  but  you  might  in  death  !  Oh  that  I 
might  die — die  by  fire,  by  torture,  by  the  sword,  if  with  it  I 
might  have  pardon  from  you  and  die  looking  on  you  !  Ru- 
dolph beloved,  may  I  go  ?  " 

He  was  none  the  less  a  brave  man  that  the  tears  fell  from 
his  eyes  as  he  answered — 

"  Yes." 


CHAPTER  XV. 

THERE  was  some  little  commotion  in  the  household  when 
it  was  known  that  Lady  Culmore  had  gone  to  the  Rectory. 
Was  the  master  mad,  the  servants  asked  each  other,  to  let 
her  go  there  when  he  knew  what  had  happened  ?  A  beauti- 
ful creature  like  that  to  go  into  the  very  arms  of  death  ? 

Mrs.  Harper  came  to  me  with  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"  I  always  thought  it  would  end  in  this  way,"  she  said. 
"  You  will  see,  miss,  my  lady  will  die.  I  say  she  is  a  saint 
and  a  martyr,  let  who  will  say  different." 

And  indeed  that  seemed  the  only  opinion  about  the  matter. 
Small-pox  had  been  almost  unknown  in  the  pretty  town  of 
Ullaclale.  Some  ]  oor  girl  born  there  had  been  in  service  in 
Liverpool,  had  come  home  ill  with  it,  and  from  her  the  con- 
tagion had  spread.  The  people  were  terrified.  Neither  for 
love  nor  money  could  the  rector  get  any  one  to  go  to  his 
house. 

Sir  Rudolph  was  restless  and  miserable  after  his  wife  was 
gone.  Ulric  and  I  made  no  allusion  to  the  discussion  that 


had  taken  place  between  them.  It  was  a  sacred  matter  be- 
tween husband  and  wife.  Whatever  wonder  or  curiosity  it 
raised  in  us,  we  never  spoke  of  it. 

We  were  very  dull  at  Ullamere  after  Lady  Culmore  went. 
Happily  one  of  the  housemaids  had  no  fear,  and  would  ac- 
company her,  so  that  we  had  the  comfort  of  knowing  that 
she  was  not  alone.  Neither  Sir  Rudolph  nor  Ulric  had  any 
fear  of  contagion.  They  went  over  to  the  Rectory  two  or 
three  times  every  day.  Lady  Culmore  never  saw  them  ;  she 
would  not  leave  little  Willie,  and  the  rector  would  not  allow 
them  to  enter  the  house. 

Day  succeeded  day,  and  still  the  little  fellow  lay  battling 
with  the  fell  disease.  On  all  sides  we  heard  hearty  praises 
of  Lady  Culmore.  Meanwhile  a  nurse  from  London  had 
been  installed  at  the  Rectory,  but  little  Willie  would  have 
none  of  her.  The  servants  said  that  Lady  Culmore  was 
giving  her  life  for  him,  little  knowing  how  true  their  words 
were.  A.t  first  none  of  the  doctors  had  hope.  Malignant 
small-pox  at  the  age  of  three  was  most  exceptional,  and  they 
did  not  see  the  slightest  chance  of  recovery  ;  but  Lady  Cul- 
more's  nursing  was  so  invaluable  that,  if  anything  could  save 
him,  that  would.  Onlookers  related  afterward,  with  tears  in 
their  eyes,  how  she  nursed  and  tended  the  little  one ;  how 
she  soothed  his  long  agony  ;  how  she  never  left  him  either 
by  night  or  day,  but  was  satisfied  with  broken  snatches  of 
sleep  by  his  side  ;  how  the  little  fellow  moaned  for  her,  cried 
for  her,  and  would  never  be  pacified  but  by  her. 

"  She  is  giving  her  life  for  him,"  they  said  to  one  another, 
little  thinking  how  true  their  words  might  prove. 

It  was  an  anxious  time  for  us  ;  and  Sir  Rudolph  was  most 
unhappy.  At  last  news  came  from  the  Rectory.  Little 
Willie  was  decidedly  better ;  he  had  asked  for  the  kitten 
and  for  "  Kate."  Ulric's  face  cleared  as  he  read  the 
letter. 

"  We  shall  have  some  happy  days  yet,"  he  said.  "  I  shall 
be  glad  to  see  the  child  safe  and  well." 

Years  afterward  I  saw  the  letter  that  Lady  Culmore  wrote 
to  her  husband  when  the  child  was  believed  to  be  out  of 
danger,  little  dreaming  that,  after  all  her  care,  he  would  be 
amongst  the  angels  first. 

"  BELOVED  RUDOLPH, — Do  you  remember  the  words,  '  a 


life  for  a  life  '  ?  I  took  away  one  ;  I  have  saved  another. 
The  child  is  out  of  danger,  and  will  recover  ;  but  I  am  very 
ill.  Shall  I  come  home  to  die,  or  will  my  atonement  be  more 
complete  if  I  remain  away  from  you  ?  Remember,  you 
promised  that  I  sho.uld  die  looking  on  your  face.  I  feel  that 
Heaven  has  forgiven  me." 

There  were  weeping  and  wailing  at  Ullamere  when  it  was 
known  that  Lady  Culmore  lay  at  death's  door.  She  had  not 
been  smitten  down  by  small-pox,  although  she  had  hung  over 
the  child  night  and  day,  soothing  him  ;  but  fever  had  stricken 
her.  She  had  no  warning  of  her  coming  illness.  She  fell  one 
night  as  she  was  singing  the  child  to  sleep.  She  rallied  suf- 
ficiently to  write  that  letter,  and  she  rallied  no  more. 

Every  precaution  was  taken,  and  Lady  Culmore  was 
brought  to  her  old  rooms  in  the  eastern  wing. 

She  was  alarmingly  ill.  The  doctors  called  it  low  fever. 
I  think  that  it  was  exhaustion,  and  that  she  had  really  given 
her  life  to  the  child.  She  had  all  her  senses,  all  her  facul- 
ties, but  no  strength.  She  could  not  raise  her  hands.  To 
my  intense  delight,  I  was  allowed  to  help  in  nursing  her ; 
and  I  tried  my  best  to  cheer  her.  The  sun  came  shining 
into  her  room  ;  the  summer  air  was  sweet  now  with  helio- 
trope and  mignonnette.  We  could  hear  the  birds  singing, 
and  the  wind  stirring  the  branches  of  the  trees.  But  there 
were  no  terrible  fancies  now,  there  was  no  dream  of  a  child's 
voice  crying,  or  of  a  child's  tiny  hand  rapping  against  the 
window-pane.  Sometimes  in  her  sleep  she  spoke  of  little 
Willie. 

One  morning  she  called  me  to  her.     I  knelt  down  by  her 
side,  and  she  drew  my  face  down  to  hers. 

"  Kate,"  she  said,  "  I  loved  you  the  first  moment  I  saw 
you,  I  am  glad,  my  dear,  that  you  will  be  Lady  Culmore." 

"  I  shall  never  be  Lady  Culmore,"  I  said.  "  i  am  to  be 
Ulric's  wife." 

"  Rudolph  will  never  marry  again,  and  I  am  going  to  die," 
she  replied.  "  You  will  be  Lady  Culmore,  Kate,  and  I  am 
glad  of  it.  I  wonder  when  I  shall  die  ?  I  am  impatient  for 
the  time,  for  I  have  a  fancy  that  Rudolph  will  let  me  die  in 
his  arms.  Let  me  know  when  the  doctors  tell  you  that  my 
hour  is  come.  When  I  am  gone,  you  will  all  know  the  truth 
about  me.  I  could  not  bear  that  you  should  know  it  while  I 


live ;  but  you  Cannot  hurt  me  by  words  or  looks  when  1  am 
dead." 

"  Nor  would  I  ever  willingly  hurt  you  at  all,"  I  said  ;  but 
she  whispered  faintly — 

"  You  do  not  know,  dear  ;  you  do  not  know  what  I  did." 

I  do  not  care  !  "  1  cried  impetuously.  "  I  am  quite  sure 
you  could  not  do  anything  very  wrong." 

"  You  think  so  ?  "  she  murmured,  with  a  faint  wringing  of 
the  hands.  "  Kate,  you  will  know  my  story  some  day ; 
always  remember  that  it  was  for  his  sake,  and  because  1 
loved  him  so.  You  must  not  forget." 

Thinking  over  the  whole  story  as  I  do  now,  I  am  sure 
that  the  best  thing  she  could  have  done  was  to  keep  her  sad 
story  secret.  Even  loving  her  as  I  did,  I  could  not,  after  I 
had  heard  it,  have  gone  to  her  and  kissed  her.  It  was  much 
better  that  we  should  not  know  the  truth  while  she  still 
lived.  What  could  we  have  said  to  her  ? 

One  evening  Lady  Culmore  was  lying,  as  I  thought,  fast 
asleep.  Everything  in  the  house  was  calm  and  still ;  not  a 
sound  broke  the  silence.  It  was  my  turn  to  sit  up  with  her, 
and  one  of  the  nurses  sat  in  the  adjoining  room.  I  was 
thinking  that  Lady  Culmore  slept  soundly,  and  was  perhaps 
a  trifle  better,  when  suddenly  she  opened  her  eyes,  with  a 
bright,  pleased,  surprised  smile.  She  half  raised  herself  on 
her  elbow,  and  looked  at  the  door.  Even  to  this  hour  I  can 
recall  the  thrill  of  horror  that  passed  through  me  when  I  saw 
and  heard  her.  With  a  bright  smile  she  looked  at  the  door, 
and  held  out  her  hands,  as  though  in  loving  greeting. 

"  Little  Willie,"  she  exclaimed,  in  her  low  weak  voice, 
"  little  Willie,  how  did  you  come  here  ?  "  Her  eyes  seemed 
to  follow  some  shadowy  form,  as  though  it  moved  from  the 
door  to  her  bedside.  "  Little  Willie,"  she  cried  again, 
"  what  has  brought  you  here  ?  "  She  seemed  to  wait  for  his 
answer  ;  and  then  she  added,  "  To  take  me  with  you — me  ? 
Are  you  quite  sure,  darling  ?  "  Another  pause  ;  then  she 
said,  "Of  course  I  will.  I  must  see  Sir  Rudolph;  then  I 
will  come.  Wait  for  me,  little  Willie." 

I  knew  that  he  was  at  home  in  his  little  white  bed,  fast 
asleep,  and  well  watched.     I  touched  her  gently. 
"Lady  Culmore,"  I  said,  "you  are  dreaming." 
She  looked  at  me,  and  I  saw  death  in  her  eyes. 
"  I  am  not  dreaming,  Kate  ;  I  am  wide  awake.     Do  you 


see  little  Willie  ?  There  he  stands,  my  dear,  the  little  darl- 
ing child.  He  says  that  he  has  come  for  me,  that  he  has 
been  sent  for  me — wretched,  guilty,  miserable  me  !  " 

"  Dear  Lady  Culmore,  you  are  dreaming,"  I  said.  "Little 
Willie  is  safe  at  home." 

"  She  does  not  see  you,  Willie  dear,"  she  remarked  faintly ; 
"but  I  do.  Wait  for  me.  Kate,  call  Sir  Rudolph;  the 
message  has  come." 

Yes,  there  was  death  in  her  eyes,  those  beautiful  eyes  that 
had  shed  so  many  tears,  and  would  shed  no  more.  I  roused 
the  nurse,  and  sent  for  Sir  Rudolph  and  Ulric.  Verily  the 
hour  was  come. 

In  less  than  five  minutes  they  were  both  in  the  room, 
and,  looking  at  the  white  face  on  the  pillow,  they  saw  at  once 
that  the  Angel  of  Death  stood  over  her. 

"  My  poor  Nest !  "  cried  Sir  Rudolph  ;  and  he  sank  upon 
his  knees  with  a  bitter  cry. 

Before  I  relate  what  happened  next,  let  me  say  that  the 
first  news  which  reached  us  in  the  morning  was  that  little 
Willie  was  dead.  He  had  died  quite  suddenly  in  the  middle 
of  the  night. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

LADY  CULMORE  opened  her  eyes  at  the  sound  of  her  hus- 
band's voice,  and  laid  her  hand  upon  his  bowed  head. 

"You  will  let  me  touch  you,  Rudolph,"  she  said,  "now 
that  I  am  dying  ?  You  promised  me  forgiveness,  and  a  last 
farewell.  Oh,  love,  kiss  me !  Oh,  love,  how  I  have  loved 
you ! " 

The  sweet  faint  voice  sounded  clearly  and  distinctly  in  the 
room.  She  looked  round  on  Ulric  and  myself  with  loving 
eyes. 

"  You  will  tell  them  when  I  am  dead,"  she  said.  "  Tell 
them  all  the  truth,  and  let  them  judge  me  as  they  will.  If  I 
have  sinned,  I  have  suffered.  To  live  near  you  always,  to  see 
you,  to  breathe  the  same  air  with  you,  to  be  called  by  your 
name,  yet  to  be  further  apart  from  you  than  an  utter  stranger 
— oh,  love,  that  has  been  torment  to  me !  I  have  seemed  to 


1* 

die  every  hour  since  that  horrible  night.  I  see  my  sin,  my 
terrible  sin,  and  I  am  glad  to  die."  With  a  sudden  accession 
of  strength,  she  rose  and  cried,  in  a  voice  that  was  almost 
terrible,  "  Love,  let  me  die  in  your  arms  !  " 

"  Grant  her  request,  Rudolph,"  said  Ulric. 

Sir  Rudolph  rose  from  his  knees  and  took  her  in  his  arms. 
With  a  cry  that  I  shall  never  forget,  she  laid  her  head  upon 
his  breast. 

"  Let  me  die  looking  on  you,"  she  said  in  a  plaintive 
voice  ;  and,  clasping  her  arms  around  him,  she  added,  "  Listen 
to  me,  beloved !  Here,  on  my  deathbed,  I  avow  the  great 
sin  of  my  life.  It  has  been  wild,  mad,  passionate,  love  of 
you.  I  have  given  you  the  love  I  should  have  given  to 
Heaven.  I  have  lived  for  you,  sinned  for  you — I  die  for 
you." 

He  bent  down — ah,  thank  Heaven  he  did  it  ! — and  kissed 
the  pale  lips.  He  whispered  something  to  her,  and  she  re- 
plied. Then  I  heard  her  say — 

"  Tell  them  as  soon  as  I  am  dead,  Rudolph,  before  you 
call  strangers  in." 

She  lay  silent  for  some  minutes,  with  a  light  of  rapture  on 
her  face. 

"  At  last — oh,  my  love,  at  last !  "  she  said.  "  Rudolph, 
say  once  more  that  you  forgive  me." 

"  I  forgive  you,  my  darling,"  he  answered,  his  voice  trem- 
bling— "  I  forgive  you.  Die  in  peace  ;  and  may  Heaven  par- 
don you  as  I  do." 

I  saw  a  smile  pass  over  her  pallid  features ;  and  she  died, 
as  she  had  prayed  that  she  might,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  his 
face. 

He  laid  her  down  gently  to  rest,  weeping  such  bitter  pas- 
sionate tears  as  men  seldom  shed. 

"  Have  I  been  too  hard  on  her?"  he  cried.  "  Have  I 
judged  her  too  harshly  ?  Was  I  too  severe  ?  Oh,  Nest,  it  is 
all  too  late  now  !  " 

Too  late  !  Her  ears  were  closed  to  all  mortal  sounds. 
Words  of  love  or  regret,  of  passion  or  sorrow,  would  reach  her 
never  more. 

"A  life  lost,  wrecked,  ruined  !  "  he  said.  "  Oh,  Nest,  in 
our  happy  young  days  how  little  we  dreamed  of  this  !  Mercy 
is  best.  I — I  wish  I  had  been  more  merciful.  But  she  died 
as  she  wished  to  die." 


73 

Ulric  and  I  stood  by  in  silence.  Sir  Rudolph  knelt  down 
by  the  dead  woman's  side,  and  I  cannot  think  of  his  pas- 
sion of  grief  now  without  tears. 

The  pent-up  love  of  long  months  was  lavished  on  her  then. 
He  kissed  the  white  brow  and  the  golden  rippling  hair,  he 
called  her  by  every  endearing  name.  One  such  word  a  few 
short  hours  before  would  have  flooded  her  whole  soul  with 
joy  ;  now  the  white  face  was  still,  and  the  lips  that  had  sighed, 
pleaded,  and  prayed,  were  closed  forever. 

"  Kate,"  whispered  Ulric,  "  come  away.  We  will  leave 
him  here." 

But  Rudolph  looked  up  at  us  with  weeping  eyes. 

"  Nay,"  he  said,  "  do  not  go  yet.  You  know  what  she 
said.  I  was  to  tell  you  her  story  as  soon  as  she  was  dead. 
Let  me  tell  it  to  you  now,  and  it  will  be  buried  with  her." 

So  standing  there,  his  hand  clasping  the  hand  of  his  dead 
wife,  Sir  Rudolph  told  us  the  story  of  her  life  and  her  sin. 

When  Sir  John  Culmore,  father  of  Rudolph  and  of 
Ulric,  died,  he  left  three  sons — the  eldest,  Richard,  who  suc- 
ceeded him  ;  the  second,  Rudolph,  who  was  then  a  captain 
in  the  Army ;  the  third,  Ulric,  my  lover,  who  was  a  barrister 
practicing  in  town.  When  Sir  John  died,  he  was  succeeded 
by  his  eldest  son,  who  then  became  Sir  Richard  Culmore  of 
Brooke.  He  was  a  kind  generous  man,  and  devoted  to  his 
brothers.  Captain  Rudolph  Culmore  and  Ulric  spent  the 
greater  part  of  their  leisure  time  at  Brooke.  Between  the 
brothers  the  greatest  possible  affection — nay,  the  most  tender 
love  existed. 

They  resembled  each  other  greatly.  They  were  tall,  dark 
handsome  men,  noble  and  generous.  The  two  younger  sons 
had  but  a  very  small  patrimony.  Rudolph  lost  the  greater  part 
of  his  money  in  some  speculation  by  which  he  had  hoped  to 
double  it ;  Ulric  worked  hard  at  his  profession.  Sir  Richard 
was  generosity  itself.  He  insisted  upon  making  both  brothers 
a  very  handsome  allowance.  They  were  unwilling  to  accept 
it,  but  they  made  a  compromise.  They  agreed  to  take  it 
until  the  elder  brother  married  ;  then,  they  persisted  in  say- 
ing, he  would  want  it  himself. 

So  it  was  arranged,  and  very  happy  they  all  were.  At  last 
Sir  Richard,  during  one  of  his  visits  to  London,  fell  in  love 
with  Ethel,  daughter  of  Lady  Hazlewood.  Captain  Rudolph 
Culmore,  rendered  curious  by  his  brother's  enthusiastic  de- 


74 

scription  of  his  betrothed,  went  to  see  her,  and  at  once 
became  a  victim  to  the  charms  of  her  cousin,  Nest  Hazle- 
wood,  an  orphan  whom  Lady  Hazlewood  had  adopted  when 
the  girl's  parents  died.  Sir  Richard  was  delighted. 

There  was  some  question  just  then  about  the  captain's 
regiment  being  ordered  abroad,  so  that,  on  that  score,  apart 
from  other  obstacles,  nothing  was  said  about  his  immediate 
marriage.  But  there  was  no  obstacle  to  that  of  the  heir  of 
Brooke  with  Ethel  Hazlewood  ;  therefore  the  important 
ceremony  took  place  without  loss  of  time. 

The  bride  was  a  beautiful  and  queenly  woman,  fair, 
graceful,  and  stately.  She  was  deeply  in  love  with  her  hus- 
band, who  had  a  passionate  affection  for  her. 

The  two  brothers  were  present  at  the  wedding  ;  Nest 
Hazlewood  was  one  of  the  bridemaicls.  The  event  passed 
off  with  the  greatest  eclat.  The  happy  bride  and  bridegroom 
went  off  to  the  Continent,  and  returned,  after  six  week's 
absence,  in  great  state  to  Brooke. 

Nest  was  persuaded  to  live  with  her  cousin,  and  for  a  few 
months  everything  went  merrily  "  as  a  marriage-bell."  The 
captain  heard  no  more  of  the  departure  of  his  regiment,  and 
was  continually  running  over  to  Brooke. 

Captain  Culmore  had  only  his  pay — he  had  lost  his 
private  fortune — and  beautiful  Nest  had  nothing,  so  that  it 
might  and  probably  would  be  years  before  their  marriage 
could  take  place.  The  eldest  brother,  Sir  Richard,  made 
most  liberal  offers  to  Rudolph.  He  would  have  shared  his 
income  with  him,  but  the  captain  would  not  consent.  It 
would  be  an  injustice  to  take  it,  he  said,  now  that  Sir  Richard 
was  married,  and  might  have  children  of  his  own  to  provide 
for.  He  said  that  Nest  and  he  loved  each  other  truly,  and 
were  not  afraid  to  wait — that  he  should  do  his  best,  and 
work  hard  for  promotion. 

The  captain  was  passionately  attached  to  Miss  Hazle- 
wood, but  he  was  more  philosophical  than  she  was.  He 
looked  upon  the  postponement  of  the  marriage  as  a  necessity 
which  there  was  no  need  to  bewail,  while  she  brooded  in 
silence  over  what  she  considered  a  most  cruel  fate. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

SIR  RICHARD  and  Lady  Culmore  had  been  married  a  little 
over  a  year  when  a  terrible  tragedy  happened.  Sir  Richard 
was  killed  by  the  bursting  of  a  gun.  The  bullet  lodged  in  his 
heart,  and  he  fell  dead  instantaneously.  There  was  terrible 
consternation  and  distress.  Messages  and  telegrams  \\ere 
despatched  in  haste,  and  before  the  end  of  the  day  both 
brothers  were  at  the  Hall.  No  words  could  tell  their  grief  at 
the  news. 

Sir  Richard  had  left  no  will ;  but,  after  a  long  conference 
with  the  lawyers  and  an  interview  with  Lady  Culmore  her- 
self, it  was  arranged  that  everything  should  for  a  time  remain 
as  it  was.  Lady  Culmore,  even  in  the  midst  of  h»r  great 
grief,  was  not  altogether  desolate,  for  in  a  few  months  she 
would  be  the  mother  of  a  little  child.  If  this  child  were  a 
boy,  he  would,  of  course,  succeed  both  to  title  and  estate — if 
a  daughter,  Captain  Culmore  would  be  the  heir.  He  himself 
behaved  most  nobly.  Nothing  could  exceed  his  kindness  to 
the  young  widow.  He  insisted  that  she  should  remain  at 
Brooke  Hall,  that  every  care  and  attention  should  be  lavished 
on  her.  He  went  continually  to  .visit  her.  He  was  as  kind 
and  devoted  as  the  most  loving  brother  could  possibly  have 
been.  Nest.  Hazlewood  remained  during  this  anxious  period 
with  her  cousin  at  Brooke,  and  she  too,  as  nurse,  was  most 
devoted.  There  were  times  when  Nest  rebelled  against  the 
fate  of  her  lover  and  herself. 

"  It  does  seem  hard,"  she  would  say  to  him,  "  that  a  little 
child  should  stand  between  you  and  this  grand  inheritance." 

But  the  captain  would  laugh  at  her,  and  never  made  the 
slightest  comment  on  the  state  of  affairs.  His  bi  other's  wife 
and  child  were  sacred  to  him.  If  he  felt  the  slightest  dis- 
appointment, he  never  showed  it.  But  Nest  with  difficulty 
concealed  her  annoyance. 

So  the  days  and  weeks  passed  anxiously,  and  at  last  the 
hour  came  when  Lady  Culmore  was  blessed  by  the  birth  of  a 
son  and  heir.  Captain  Culmore  had  been  sent  for,  and  he 


76 

arrived  an  hour  before  the  young  mother  died.  She  lived 
only  to  place  the  child  in  Rudolph's  arms. 

"  I  should  like  him  to  be  called  Bertie,"  she  said  ;  "  and 
I  intrust  him  to  you — you  and  Nest." 

They  both  knelt  by  her  side.  She  took  a  hand  of  each, 
and  held  it  in  her  own. 

"  No  trust  could  be  more  sacred  than  this  which  I  confide 
to  you  both,"  she  said.  "  Take  care  of  my  little  son.  I  leave 
him  to  you  ;  let  him  be  to  you  as  a  son  of  your  own.  You  will 
look  after  his  interests,  Rudolph  ;  it  will  be  many  a  day  be- 
fore the  broad  lands  of  Brooke  fall  to  him.  Nest,  you  have 
been  like  a  sister  to  me  ;  take  care  of  my  child.  You  will  be 
married,  and  you  must  come  to  live  here,  to  be  the  guardians 
of  my  child." 

And,  kneeling  there,  they  promised  her  most  faithfully  to 
care  for  and  cherish  the  child  as  though  it  were  their  own. 

I  will  tell  the  remainder  of  the  story  in  Sir  Rudolph's  own 
words.  He  was  still  kneeling  by  the  side  of  the  bed,  and  his 
tempest  of  grief  was  over. 

"  Kate,  you  will  perhaps  understand  me  best,"  he  said, 
"  when  I  tell  you  that  from  the  moment  the  young  mother, 
dying,  placed  that  child  in  my  arms,  I  loved  it  tenderly. '  I 
am  not  ashamed,"  continued  Sir  Rudolph,  "  to  tell  you  that 
I  knelt  down  and  kissed  the  little  face  of  my  brother's  son, 
that  I  promised  loyal  fealty  and  true  service  to  him.  I 
promised  to  look  after  his  interests  as  though  they  were  my 
own. 

" '  Sir  Albert  Culmore  of  Brooke ! '  I  said,  saluting  in 
soldier  fashion  the  baby-heir. 

"  We  had  taken  the  child  into  the  nursery  which  the  poor 
young  mother  had  prepared  with  such  loving  care.  We  in- 
stalled the  little  Sir  Bertie  in  great  state.  A  nurse  had  been 
engaged  for  hin.  She  was  a  tall,  stout  woman  ;  and  she  sat 
before  the  fire  with  the  little  bundle  of  white  flannel  and 
white  lace  on  her  knee.  Her  name  was  Martha  Jennings. 

" '  Do  you  think  the  little  one  is  strong,  nurse  ? '  I  asked. 

"  '  No  one  can  tell,  sir,'  she  answered,  '  at  this  age.  It 
will  be  against  him,  poor  little  child,  losing  his  mother.' 

"  I  laid  my  hand  upon  Nest's  shoulder. 

"  '  This  lady  will  be  the  most  tender  of  mothers  to  him,'  I 
said. 

"  But  the  nurse  shook  her  head. 


77 

"  '  A  child  has  but  one  mother,  sir,'  she  said. 

"  Nest  bent  down  to  kiss  him. 

" '  I  will  be  a  loving  mother  to  you,  baby,'  she  said. 

"  And  I  wondered  if  the  mother  in  heaven  could  see  the 
fair  little  child  lying  there,  with  its  two  protectors,  Nest  and 
myself  Ah,  poor  Nest !  ' 

"  Lady  Culmore  was  laid  to  sleep  by  her  husband's  side, 
and  I  wrote  for  prolonged  leave  of  absence.  If  not  the  heir 
to  the  estate,  I  was  the  agent  for  it — steward  for  the  little 
child  and  his  rights.  The  leave  of  absence  was  granted,  and 
I  was  very  busy.  There  was  much  to  do  in  settling  the 
affairs  of  the  estate.  Ulric  came  down  to  help  me  whenever 
he  could.  I  grew  to  love  my  fair  little  nephew  ;  I  used  to 
call  him  the  chieftain.  I  made  it  a  practice  to  kneel  by  the 
pretty  cot  where  he  slept  and  pray  for  him.  I  liked  to  go 
there  in  the  morning  and  at  night.  A  tender  passionate  love 
was  growing  in  my  heart  for  the  baby-heir,  my  dead  brother's 
son.  True,  the  little  fellow  had  deprived  me  of  title,  estate, 
and  wealth  ;  but  I  did  not  seem  to  love  him  one  jot  the  less. 
The  nurse  smiled  when  she  saw  me  kneeling  by  the  cot,  kiss- 
ing the  little  hand.  I  always  like  to  remember  that  one  day 
she  said  to  me — " 

"  '  You  are  a  good  man,  sir.  Excuse  me,  but  some  gentle- 
men would  hate  a  child  who  had  come  between  them  and 
such  a  property.'  ' 

"  I  laughed,  for  this  seemed  absurd  and  contemptible. 
Hate  that  fair,  tender  little  creature,  whose  father  was  my 
own  brother  !  Oh,  no,  never  !  Rather  would  I  love  and 
cherish  him.  One  morning  Nest  and  myself  were  standing 
by  the  little  cot,  and  she  said  to  me — 

"  '  What  a  fragile  tender  life  it  is  !  And  to  think  that  this 
is  all  that  stands  between  you  and  fortune  ! ' ' 

"  I  kissed  her  beautiful  upturned  face." 

f          "  '  Do  not  encourage  such  thoughts,  much  less  utter  them, 
(    Nest,'  I  said." 

"  '  Nevertheless  it  does  seem  strange,  Rudolph,'  she  per- 
sisted. '  that  such  a  tiny  child  should  deprive  you  of  every- 
thing.' " 

"'We  were  all  tiny  children  once  upon  a  time,'  I  replied." 

"  I  knew  that  Nest  cried  at  times  over  »vhat  seemed  the 
hardness  of  our  fate.  There  was  no  prospect  of  our  marriage 
for  some  time  yet." 


7* 

"  One  morning  Mrs.  Jennings  told  me  that  the  child  was 
not  well,  and  a  little  later  a  letter  came  from  headquarters, 
saying  that  our  regiment  was  ordered  abroad,  though  not  on 
active  service.  The  news  was  almost  a  death-blow  to  Nest. 
She  clung  to  me,  poor  child,  weeping  passionately.  I  must 
not  go,  she  said  ;  she  would  die  if  I  left  her.  I  soothed  and 
calmed  her.  I  told  her  that,  if  I  went,  she  must  remain,  and 
take  good  care  of  the  little  heir.  I  shall  never  forget  her 
anguish  at  the  thought  of  our  separation. 

"  I  must  hasten  to  the  end  of  my  story.  The  child  got 
worse  during  the  day,  and  the  next  morning  he  was  dead. 
The  doctor  said  that  he  had  died  in  convulsions,  and  added 
that  the  little  one  was  so  delicate  that  he  had  never  really 
thought  he  would  live.  The  nurse  was  overwhelmed  with 
grief.  It  struck  me  afterward,  although  I  did  not  think  much 
of  it  at  the  time,  that  she  never  looked  me  in  the  face  when 
she  spoke  of  the  child.  The  little  heir  was  dead.  I  thanked 
Heaven,  as  I  stood  by  the  little  one's  side,  that  even  in  my 
thoughts  I  had  never  wished  him  harm,  that  I  had  never  for 
one  moment  grudged  him  his  rich  inheritance,  nor  felt  that 
he  was  in  my  way." 

Sir  Rudolph  paused  for  a  few  moments,  looking  earnestly 
on  the  face  of  his  dead  wife.  Then  he  turned  to  us  again. 

"  When  the  child  died,  you  remember,  Ulric,  I  sent  at 
once  for  you.  I  succeeded  to  the  title  and  estate.  I  was 
sorry  for  the  child;  but  it  had  been  such  a  fragile  life  that  I 
did  not  greatly  mourn.  We  buried  the  little  one.  Nest  then 
went  back  to  her  aunt,  and  it  was  arranged  that  she  should 
remain  with  her  until  we  were  married.  I  did  not  think  it 
strange  that  she  should  suggest  taking  the  nurse,  Martha 
Jennings,  with  her.  The  woman  professed  great  attachment 
to  her,  while  Nest  seemed  to  rely  greatly  on  her.  Nor,  when 
we  were  married,  did  I  think  it  strange  that  Nest  should 
want  to  bring  the  nurse  with  her  to  Brooke  Hall.  I 
imagined  that  she  liked  her  for  my  little  nephew's  sake,  and 
that  the  child  formed  a  tie  between  them  which  women  only 
could  understand. 

"  The  cloud  caused  by  so  many  deaths  hung  over  us  for 
some  time,  and  then  gradually  we  learned  to  look  back  on 
the  past  with  calmness.  We  were  young,  and  I  was  more 
happy  with  my  wife  than  words  can  tell.  You  know,  both  of 
you,  how  she  loved  me.  I  think  no  man  in  the  world  was 
ever  more  beloved. 


79 

"  I  remember  that  my  first  sensation  of  uneasiness  arose 
from  noticing  how  completely  Nest  was  under  the  control  of 
the  nurse  ;  and  I  did  not  altogether  like  the  woman's  manner 
to  her.  More  than  once  I  found  my  wife  in  tears,  and  when 
I  inquired  the  reason  she  put  me  off  with  an  evasive  answer. 
Yet,  Heaven  knows,  these  were  but  trifles  which  brought  me 
no  gleam  of  suspicion  of  the  reality  to  come. 

"I  wish,"  continued  Sir  Rudolph,  "that  I  were  not  com- 
pelled to  tell  you  the  rest.  I  do  so  only  by  her  command, 
now  that  she  is  dead.  I  would  fain  bury  her  secret  with  her, 
poor  misguided  Nest ! 

"  I  must  confess  now  that  there  were  times  when  I  felt 
uneasy  about  Nest.  She  was  so  changed.  She  seemed  to 
love  me,  if  possible,  more  than  ever.  She  was  most  devoted 
to  me,  but  she  puzzled  me.  She  was  abstracted,  and  did 
not  seem  quite  sure  of  herself. 

"  About  a  week  before  Christmas-day  Mrs.  Jennings  was 
taken  suddenly  ill.  Nest  seemed  much  distressed.  We  sent 
for  the  doctor  from  Avonsleigh,  and  he  pronounced  her  to  be 
in  great  danger.  At  first  no  one  thought  much  of  her  illness, 
nor  did  we  say  anything  before  our  friends — the  house  was 
filled  with  guests — lest  they  should  be  nervous.  One  of  the 
housemaids  undertook  to  nurse  her,  and  we  hoped  for  the 
best.  At  nine  o'clock  on  the  morning  of  Christmas-eve  I 
was  as  happy  as  any  one  in  England.  I  rose  from  the  break- 
fast-table, after  making  plans  for  the  day  with  my  guests. 
Nest  met  me  in  the  hall,  where  the  men-servants  had  just 
placed  a  great  bunch  of  mistletoe.  I  took  up  a  spray,  and 
held  it  over  Nest's  head.  As  I  saw  her  face  then  I  never 
beheld  it  more.  I  kissed  the  lips  that  had  never  worn  any- 
thing but  the  sweetest  smiles  for  me,  and  at  the  same  mo- 
ment the  housemaid  who  was  in  attendance  on  the  sick 
woman  came  to  me. 

" '  Sir  Rudolph/  she  said,  '  Mrs.  Jennings  bade  me  ask 
you  if  you  would  go  to  her.  She  is  much  worse,  and  she 
wants  to  see  you.' 

"  I  was  on  the  point  of  saying  that  I  would  go  at  once, 
when  I  saw  a  terrible  change  come  over  my  wife's  face.  She 
looked  for  one  moment  as  though  she  was  going  to  faint. 
She  clasped  my  hand  and  said — 

" '  You  must  not  go,  Rudolph.  It  is  only  a  woman's 
foolish  fancy.' 


8o 

"  '  I  cannot  refuse  the  poor  creature.  I  must  go,  Nest,' 
I  said. 

"  '  You  shall  not  ! '  she  cried  desperately ;  and  she  clung 
to  me  with  such  earnestness  that  I  could  hardly  free  myself. 

44  '  Why  do  you  wish  me  not  to  see  her,  Nest  ? '  I  asked. 

"  '  Because  she  is  wicked  and  malicious,'  was  the  answer. 
4  She  will  tell  you  anything.  She  has  mad  fancies.  Oh, 
Rudolph  beloved,  for  Heaven's  sake  do  not  go  near  her  ! ' 

"  There  was  something  startling  in  her  manner.  I  could 
not  understand  it.  Was  she  afraid  for  herself,  or  for  me  ? 

44 '  I  cannot  refuse  the  request  of  a  dying  woman,'  I  said, 
more  sternly  than  I  had  ever  spoken  to  her  before  ;  '  but  you 
can  come  with  me,  Nest.' 

She  shrank  back,  shuddering 

14 '  No,- no  ! '  she  cried. 

44  4  Then  let  me  go  alone,  and  trust  me.' 

44 1  shall  never  forget  the  despair  on  her  face  when  I  left 
her.  I  shall  never  forget  the  cry  that  came  from  her  lips. 

'4  4  I  shall  not  be  long,  Nest,'  I  said. 

44  4 1  knew  where  the  sick  woman  was  lying,  and  I  hasten- 
ed thither.  I  found  the  nurse  at  the  point  of  death.  A 
servant  was  sitting  with  her  ;  and  the  sick  woman  looked  at 
me  with  an  imploring  face. 

44  '  Send  her  away*,  Sir  Rudolph,'  she  said.  4 1  want  to 
speak  to  you.' 

44  The  woman  went,  and  we  were  left  alone. 

"  '  Sir  Rudolph,'  said  the  nurse,  4 1  know  before  I  speak 
that  the  words  I  have  to  say  will  break  your  heart.  I  meant 
to  die  without  uttering  them,  but  I  cannot.  I  dare  not 
depart  with  this  secret  undisclosed.  I — I  must  confess  the 
truth.' 

44 '  Certainly,'  I  said,  '  If  you  have  anything  on  your 
mind,  you  had  better  tell  me.' 

44  4  Ah,  sir,'  she  said  pityingly,  4  it  will  break  your  heart ! 
You  will  never  be  happy  again — I  know  you  so  well,  sir  ;  and 
yet,  if  I  die  without  telling  you,  I  feel  I  shall  never  sleep  in 
my  grave.  I  could  not  rest ;  I  should  come  back  from  the 
dead  to  tell  you.' 

44  4  Tell  me  now,'  I  said,  for  her  words  had  excited  in  me  a 
certain  horror  that  I  could  not  endure — '  tell  me  at  once ! ' 

"  She  beckoned  to  me  to  go  closer  to  her,  and  I  did  so. 
She  raised  her  hand,  and  I  placed  my  ear  to  her  lips. 


Si 

"  *  I  dare  not  speak  aloud,'  she  said.  '  Even  the  walls 
have  ears,  and  they  might  hear  me.  What  I  have  to  say  is 
a  fatal  secret  that  you  must  tell  to  no  one.  Anoiher  life 
hangs  on  it.  Sir  Rudolph,  your  wife,  Lady  Culmore,  poisoned 
the  little  baby  heir  herself.' 

"  I  started  back  from  her  with  a  feeling  of  loathing  and 
horror  impossible  to  describe.  My  fair  gentle  Nest  slay  that 
little  tender  babe  !  I  was  filled  with  anger. 

"  '  You  are  raving  ! '  I  cried.     '  It  is  mad,  wicked  fancy  ! ' 

" '  Sir,'  she  said  calmly,  '  it  is  the  truth — the  plain  simple 
truth  ;  and  I  can  die  easily  now  that  T  have  told  it.  Sir,  as 
surely  as  Heaven  is  above  us,  Lady  Culmore  killed  the  child. 
I  saw  her  do  it  with  my  own  eyes.  I  will  tell  you  ;  you  shall 
judge  for  yourself.' 

"  There  was  no  help  for  it.  I  was  compelled  to  listen, 
and  I  had  begun  to  fear — ah  me,  how  terribly ! 

"  '  You  remember,'  she  said,  '  that  the  baby  was  taken  ill, 
and  that  we  nursed  him  assiduously,  no  one  more  tenderly, 
more  kindly  than  Miss  Nest.  The  night  he  died  we  were 
rather  anxious  about  him,  and  Miss  Hazlewood  said  she  would 
sit  by  his  cot  while  I  went  down  to  supper.  I  was  quite 
willing.  I  went  to  see  if  the  child  was  all  right.  He  was  fast 
asleep,  and  looked,  to  my  thinking,  better;  there  was  more 
color  in  the  fair  little  face.  As  I  left  the  room,  Sir  Rudolph, 
I  was  struck  by  the  peculiar  expression  on  Miss  Hazlewood's 
face.  I  could  not  describe  it — a  cruel  look  it  seemed  to  me. 
I  went  down  stairs,  but  Miss  Hazlewood's  look  haunted  me. 
Not  that  I  had  any  fear  ;  I  would  rather  have  suspected  a 
saint  of  doing  harm  to  the  child  than  Miss  Hazlewood.  I 
could  not  rest  clown  stairs.  I  went  back.  I  saw  Miss  Hazle- 
wood on  her  knees  by  the  side  of  the  cradle.  She  held  a 
little  bottle  in  one  hand  and  a  spoon  in  the  other.  As  I 
walked  in  at  the  door,  I  saw  her,  with  a  steady  hand,  drop 
two  drops  from  the  bottle  into  the  spoon.  Then,  before  I 
could  cross  the  room,  before  I  had  time  to  speak,  the  child 
had  swallowed  the  contents  of  the  teaspoon.  I  caught  her, 
as  I  may  say,  red-handed.  She  neither  saw  nor  heard  me, 
she  was  so  deeply  engrossed  in  giving  the  child  the  fatal  dose. 
I  sprang  forward. 

"  '  "  What  are  you  doing  ?  "  I  cried. 

"  '  For  a  moment  she  seemed  almost  paralyzed  with  fear. 

" '  "  What  are  you  doing  ?  "  I  cried  again,  almost  beside 
myself. 


82 

"  '  "  Giving  baby  his  medicine,"  she  said.  "  It  is  just 
time." 

"  '  She  tried  to  hide  the  bottle  ;  but  I  would  not  let  her, 
and  in  the  struggle  she  dropped  it.  The  contents  were  spilled 
upon  the  pillow.  I  picked  up  the  bottle.  On  it  was  a  label 
with  the  one  terrible  word — "  Poison." 

"  ' "  You  have  dropped  some  of  this  into  the  teaspoon  !  " 
I  cried.  "  You  guilty  miserable  woman,  you  have  killed  the 
child  !  " 

"  '  She  did  not  deny  it.  She  fell  at  my  feet,  groveling, 
crying  out  that  it  was  such  a  fragile  little  life,  and  that  it  part- 
ed you  from  her.  She  clung  tome  with  cries  and  tears.  She 
told  me  that  your  regiment  was  ordered  abroad,  and  that  it 
would  be  years  before  you  could  return  and  marry  her — long 
years — but  that,  if  the  child  died,  and  you  succeeded  to  the 
baronetcy,  you  would  be  obliged  to  sell,  and  then  you  would 
marry  her  at  once.  "  And  I  loved  him  so,"  she  cried  plain- 
tively ;  "  I  love  him  so  dearly  !  "  That  was  all  she  kept  re- 
peating— "  I  love  him  so  !  "  It  was  a  terrible  scene,  sir — 
the  child  already  dead  in  his  cot,  and  the  beautiful  lady,  with 
her  white  despairing  face,  crouching  on  the  ground. 

"  '  "  I  could  not  let  him  go  !  "  she  moaned.  "  He  has 
been  so  faithful,  so  loyal,  so  good ;  he  has  loved  me  so  well. 
Every  one  else's  love  prospers.  Why  should  we  spend  all 
the  best  years  of  our  life  apart  ?  He  might  die  abroad,  he 
whom  I  love  with  all  my  heart.  And  it  was  only  this  one  lit- 
tle life,  so  fragile,  so  weak,  that  stood  between  him  and 
wealth." 

"  '  She  bent  over  the  little  one's  body. 

"  ' "  See,"  she  cried  ;  "  it  has  not  suffered ;  it  breathed 
only  for  a  short  space,  and  then  died.  A  few  minutes  ago  it 
was  a  weak,  struggling  little  creature,  now  it  is  a  bright  angel 
in  heaven.  I  have  done  no  serious  wrong.  I  have  set  the 
little  soul  free,  and  I  need  not  part  from  my  love.  I  have 
given  him  fortune,  wealth,  all  that  my  heart  desired  for  him," 

"  '  "  The  law  will  tell  a  different  story,  Miss  Hazelwood," 
I  said.  "  In  the  eyes  of  the  law,  as  well  as  before  Heaven, 
the  life  of  a  little  child  is  as  sacred  as  that  of  a  grown-up 
person." 

"  '  Do  you  know,  Sir  Rudolph,'  said  the  nurse,  '  I  do  not 
think  that  up  to  that  time  she  had  looked  upon  the  deed  as 
murder  ?  She  had  thought  only  of  removing  the  obstacle 


that  lay  between  you,  sir,  and  wealth — that  lay  between  her- 
self and  her  love.  She  had  never  thought  of  the  fact  that 
she  had  put  herself  within  the  power  of  the  law.  If  you  had 
but  seen  her  when  I  told  her  that  she  had  committed  a  murder 
and  deserved  to  be  hanged  !  To  prove  the  truth  of  all  I  say, 
sir,  look  at  this.  I  have  saved  it  from  that  time  to  this.' 

"She  drew  from  beneath  her  pillow  a  little  bottle,  with 
the  word  '  Poison  '  on  the  label  of  it,  and  a  frilled  white  linen 
pillow-case  in  which  holes  had  been  burned. 

"  '  You  can  tell  how  deadly  the  poison  was  when  you  see 
that  it  has  burned  the  linen  in  this  fashion,'  said  the  nurse. 
'  But  the  child  did  not  surfer  one  minute  ;  it  died  at  once. 
Well,  sir,  Miss  Hazelwood  cried,  wept,  prayed,  pleaded,  until 
at  last  I  promised  not  to  tell  her  secret.  But  I  cannot  keep 
it  in  death." 

" '  How  am  I  to  know  this  story  is  true  ? '  I  asked. 
*  These  things  you  show  me  are  no  proof.' 

"  '  A  soul  on  the  brink  of  eternity  does  not  lie,  sir.  Lady 
Culmore  paid  me  well  to  keep  the  secret,  but  I  have  very  often 
been  on  the  point  of  telling  you.' 

u  '  I  do  not  believe  you  even  now,'  I  cried. 

" '  Look  behind  you,  sir,'  she  said ;  '  you  will  read  the 
truth  there." 

"  I  glanced  in  the  direction  in  which  she  pointed,  and 
there  I  saw  my  wife  standing  with  ghastly  terror  on  her  face 
and  desperate  fear  in  her  eyes.  I  held  up  the  bottle  to  her. 

"  '  Is  it  true  ? '  I  asked. 

"  And  she  fell  upon  her  knees,  cowering  as  she  cried  out — 

" '  Yes,  it  is  true  ! ' 

"  I  cannot  describe,"  continued  Sir  Rudolph,  "  my  feel- 
ings of  horror.  Since  the  shock  I  have  never  been  the  same 
man.  An  hour  later,  I  stood  with  my  unfortunate  wife  in  her 
boudoir,  resolved  that  we  should  part  that  hour,  never  to 
meet  again.  I  loved  her  very  dearly ;  but,  when  I  knew  that 
she  had  taken  the  life  of  that  fair  little  child,  loathing  took 
the  place  of  love. 

"  I  told  her,  in  grave  measured  words,  that  we  must  part 
that  night,  never  more  to  meet.  I  told  her  that  the  struggle 
in  my  heart  was  a  hard  one,  that  I  felt  inclined  to  deliver  her 
up  to  justice  and  to  the  fate  she  deserved.  But  she  was  a 
woman,  and  my  wife — I  could  not  see  her  hanged.  I  hesi- 
tated, as  it  seemed  to  me,  between  two  sins — screening  a  mur- 


84 

deress,  and  giving  up  to  justice  the  wife  who  had  sinned  for 
me. 

"  If  I  talked  to  you  forever,  Ulric,  Kate,  I  could  not  tell 
you  all  the  details  of  that  horrible  scene.  Poor  beautiful 
Nest  !  Her  grief  was  terrible  to  witness.  She  clung  to  me, 
she  knelt  at  my  feet,  she  prayed  and  pleaded  with  such 
passionate  despair  that  it  might  almost  have  moved  a  heart  of 
stone.  What  she  had  done  had  been  done  for  love  of  me. 
What  did  that  little  fragile  life  matter  ?  What  was  it  in  com- 
parison with  my  fortune,  with  my  love  and  hers  ?  I  saw  that 
what  the  old  nurse  had  said  was  true — she  did  not  regard  the 
deed  she  had  committed  as  murder. 

"  Ah,  you  cannot  tell  what  it  was  to  me  to  have  the  wo- 
man I  had  loved  best  in  the  world  crouching  in  tears  at  my 
feet  !  This  woman,  weeping,  praying  was  my  darling  Nest  ; 
the  face  I  had  loved,  the  white  hand  I  had  kissed  and 
caressed,  were  those  of  a  murderess,  and  that  murderess  was 
my  wife  !  Hour  after  hour  passed  on  that  terrible  Christmas- 
eve.  We  were  still  together,  and  I  was  unable  to  decide 
what  to  do.  I  could  not  give  her  up  to  justice.  She  was  my 
wife,  and  she  had  sinned  for  me  ;  yet  the  murder  was  none  the 
less  a  terrible  one.  No  man  was  ever  more  wretched  or  more 
bewildered.  Poor  Nest,  how  she  loved  me  !  She  crouched 
at  my  feet  in  an  agony  of  tears,  and  I  could  not  raise  her  to 
comfort  her — I  could  not  soothe  her.  She  was  worn  and  ex- 
hausted with  the  passion  of  her  grief. 

"  '  Do  not  send  me  from  you,  love  !  "  she  cried,  in  a  voice 
like  that  of  a  dying  woman.  '  Kill  me,  if  you  will.  I  should 
bless  even  death  at  your  hands.' 

"  What  was  I  to  do  ?  She  had  committed  a  cruel  crime  ; 
she  deserved  punishment ;  yet,  as  she  clung  to  my  feet  in 
tears,  how  could  I  decide  ? 

"  '  It  was  all  for  you,  love,'  she  moaned.  '  I  could  not 
bear  that  you  should  go  across  the  sea.  I  have  loved  you  so 
dearly  and  so  long,  it  seemed  as  though  we  should  never  be 
happy. 

" '  Happy  !     As  though  sin  could  ever  lead  to  happiness  I ' 

" '  I  would  have  killed  myself,  Rudolph,'  she  said,  '  to 
make  you  happy.' 

"  And  I  knew  it  was  true.  I  could  not  give  her  up  to  jus- 
tice, and  I  certainly  could  not  take  her  to  my  heart  again, 
although  she  had  sinned  for  me. 


"  We  had  been  three  hours  together,  when  a  sudden  idea 
occurred  to  me.  We  could  he  husband  and  wife  no  more.  I 
could  never  kiss  the  face  of  a  murderess  ;  I  could  never  touch 
the  hands  that  had  taken  the  life  of  that  fair  little  child.  All 
was  over  between  my  once  beloved  Nest  and  me — over  for- 
ever. But  I  could  shield  her  in  some  measure.  She  should 
never,  if  I  could  help  it,  mix  with  the  world  again.  The 
idea  occurred  to  me  to  bring  her  to  Ullamere — no  place  could 
be  more  out  of  the  world — and  to  live  out  here  the  remainder 
of  our  sorrowful  lives  apart.  I  would  keep  her  secret  on  those 
conditions.  She  must  be  content  to  live  alone  without  friends 
or  visitors. 

"  For  myself,  so  hot  was  my  indignation  that  I  swore  I 
would  never  touch  her  hands  again  ;  and  she  promised  that 
she  would  never  even  lay  a  finger  on  me.  Poor  Nest  ! 
She  broke  that  promise  only  once.  We  were  to  live  together 
— that  is,  under  one  roof — but  were  to  be  further  apart  than 
strangers  ;  more  than  the  bitterness  of  death  lay  between  us. 
She  was  never  to  approach  my  rooms,  nor  I  hers.  We  were 
to  speak  only  when  necessity  compelled  us.  So  I  hoped  to 
compromise  matters,  to  punish  her  for  her  sin  and  in  some 
measure  to  shield  her  from  the  consequences.  Yet  I  felt 
that  I  had  made  a  most  miserable  compromise. 

"  I  remember  that  she  looked  at  me,  hopeless  despair 
shining  in  her  eyes. 

"  '  Rudolph,'  she  said,  '  the  sentence  you  have  passed  is 
heavier  than  the  sentence  of  death  ;  but  I  accept  it,  and  sub- 
mit to  it,  coming  ffom  you.' 

"  Then  came  two  or  three  days  that  I  shall  never  forget, 
the  abrupt  breaking  up  the  party  of  friends,  the  surprise 
of  the  servants.  Some  of  them  I  left  in  charge  of  Brooke  ; 
the  two  most  faithful  I  brought  here.  I  left  orders  for  the 
funeral  of  the  old  nurse,  who  died  a  few  hours  after  she  had 
confessed  that  miserable  secret  to  me — and  then  we  came 
here. 

"  Here  we  have  lived  since  in  the  very  depths  of  misery. 
I  adhered  strictly  to  the  rules  l^id  down.  I  could  not  for- 
give my  wife  her  crime,  although  I  knew  it  had  been  com- 
mitted from  love  of  me.  Every  day  it  grew  more  horrible  in 
my  eyes,  and  every  day  the  distance  between  us  increased. 
Every  time  I  saw  those  hands  of  hers  I  fancied  them  holding 
the  fatal  dose,  until  I — oh,  may  Heaven  forgive  me  1 — until 


36 

->» 

I  hated  her.     I  never  looked  at  her,  I  never  heard  the  sound 
of  her  voice,  without  thinking  of  the  murdered  child. 

"  After  that  I  noticed  a  great  change  in  her.  I  do  not 
think,  frankly  speaking,  that  she  ever  realized  the  enormity 
of  her  sin.  I  believe  there  had  always  been  a  faint  hope  in 
her  heart  that  I  should  forgive  her  and  take  her  back  again, 
poor  child  !  The  stories  that  I  heard  from  the  servants 
about  her  were  so  deplorable  that  I  decided  on  finding  a 
companion  for  her.  Kate,  who  came  as  poor  Nest's  com- 
panion, will  be  your  wife,  Ulric  ;  and  may  Heaven  send  you 
a  happier  lot  than  has  fallen  to  me ! 

"  She  sinned,  but  she  suffered ;  through  all  the  time  of 
bitter  estrangement  she  loved  me  as  well  and  as  passionately 
as  ever.  She  tried  to  atone  for  her  sin.  How  she  pleaded 
to  me  that  she  might  nurse  the  rector's  child ! 

"  That  is  her  story.     How  do  you  judge  her  ?  " 

Closed  forever  were  the  lips  that  might  have  pleaded  in 
self-defence,  the  eyes  that  had  shed  so  many  bitter  tears. 
She  could  tell  us  nothing  of  the  passion  and  love  that  had 
driven  her  mad,  of  her  sorrow  and  despair,  her  torture  and 
anguish.  She  lay  silent.  Heaven  would  judge  her.  Dare 
we  ? 

Rudolph  bent  down  and  kissed  her  with  burning  tears. 

"  Who  will  judge  her  ?  "  he  asked. 

And  no  voice  replied. 

"  What  flowers  will  you  place  in  her  hands,  Kate  ? "  said 
Ulric  softly. 

Ah  me,  not  the  white  roses  of  innocence  or  the  red  blos- 
oms  of  guilt !  In  her  golden  hair,  on  her  silent  heart,  in 
her  white  hands,  I  placed  purple  passion-flowers,  the  truest 
emblem  of  her. 

******* 

I  am  Lady  Culmore  now,  for  Sir  Rudolph  went  back  into 
the  Army,  and  was  slain  at  Isandula.  Then  Ulric  gave  up 
the  Bar,  and  we  were  married,  and  went  to  live  at  Brooke. 
The  memory  of  the  fair  little  child,  of  its  young  mother,  of 
beautiful  Nest,  has  faded  now  ;  but  Ulric,  more  my  lover 
than  ever  since  he  has  been  my  husband,  says  that,  when  he 
sees  the  mistletoe,  the  white  berries  look  like  tears  upon  it ; 
and  he  will  not  have  it  near  us  at  Christmas-time. 


r  .  / 


£     /  X  6  > 

FAIR  BUT  FALSE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

MINE — all  mine  !  Mine  the  grand  sweep  of  meadow-land, 
green  and  fertile,  looking  like  a  sea  of  gold  when  the  wind 
stirred  the  yellow  buttercups  !  Mine  the  range  of  purple-tinted 
hills  that  lay  in  the  distance,  clothed  with  trees  which  had  been 
the  growth  of  centuries  !  Mine  the  pine-forest  stretching  down 
to  the  sea,  with  its  rich  aromatic  odors,  and  its  never-ceasing 
music  as  the  wind  swayed  the  heads  of  the  stately  pines  ! 
Mine  the  shady  woods  with  their  open  glades,  their  leafy  clois- 
ters, where  the  sunlight  fell  on  the  sward,  filtered,  as  it  were, 
through  the  boughs  of  the  interlacing  trees,  where  the  wild- 
flowers  grew  in  lavish  abundance — a  lovely  verdant  kingdom 
wherein  the  merry  brown  hares  roamed  at  will  and  the  bright- 
eyed  squirrels  leaped  fearlessly  from  bough  to  bough  !  Mine 
the  magnificent  gardens,  said  to  be  the  finest,  the  most  exten- 
sive, and  the  best  laid  out  in  the  country,  with  their  wealth  of 
ferneries,  and  greenhouses,  fountains  and  statuary  !  Mine  the 
fine  trout-stream  that  ran  through  the  wide  domain  !  Mine 
the  numberless  little  brooks  that  meandered  along  peacefully 
and  found  their  way  to  the  river  Floy,  and  were  then  swept  on 
to  mingle  their  waters  with  the  ever-restless  ocean  !  Mine 
the  grand  old  mansion  called  Jesmond  Hall,  one  of  the  most 
ancient  and  picturesque  houses  in  the  country,  a  stately  pile  of 
gray  stone  standing  on  the  slope  of  a  hill  !  Originally  it  had 
been  a  castle,  held  by  one  of  the  early  Saxon  chiefs.  Tt  had 


272 


FAIR  BUT  FALSE. 


changed  hands  many  times,  and  had  been  added  to,  taken  from 
and  altered  until  it  became  what  it  now  was,  a  confusion  of 
architectural  styles,in  which  the  original  was  almost  obliterated 
by  the  later  additions  ;  yet  withal  was  it  a  most  picturesque 
home.  Terraces  and  gardens  had  a  gentle  slope,  and  the  deep 
swift  river  Floy  ran  at  the  foot  of  the  hill ;  and  in  the  distance 
there  was  a  glimpse  of  the  blue  waters  of  the  sea — for  Jesmond 
stood  on  the  fair  coast  of  Hampshire.  Mine  the  fine  old  ruins, 
with  their  ivy-clad  walls  and  well  preserved  keep  !  Mine  all 
the  wealth  that  had  been  hoarded  in  hidden  coffers,  the  count- 
less thousands  that  had  been  accumulating  for  long  years  ! 
Mine  the  diamonds  and  rare  jewels — Jesmond  heirlooms  ! 
Mine  the  pictures — literally  worth  a  king's  ransom — the  fine 
old  silver,  the  treasures  of  gold,  of  rare  old  china,  of  buhl,  of 
jasper,  and  of  marqueterie — all  that  the  old  Hall  contained 
was  mine — all  mine  ! 

As  I,  Felicia  Gordon,  stood  on  the  summit  of  the  steep 
grassy  hill  everything  on  which  I  gazed  was  my  own,  except 
the  vast  expanse  of  sea  which  bounded  my  estate  on  the  south. 

I  was  not  vain  ;  but,  looking  back,  I  should  imagine  that 
my  heart  swelled  at  that  moment  with  a  sense  of  my  own 
importance.  On  this  large  domain  there  were  many  tenants. 
Pretty  little  farms  nestled  in  the  valleys,  quaint  old-fashioned 
homesteads  dotted  the  meadows,  the  straggling  little  village 
of  Mead  was  all  mine,  and  I  owned  many  houses  in  the  town 
that  lay  nearest  to  the  Hall — Honton  ;  so  that  numbers  of  men 
women,  and  children  were  dependant  on  me,  many  lives  lay, 
as  it  were  in,  my  hand  ;  and  on  this  bright  May  morning,  when 
I  stood  on  the  hill  top,  looking  over  my  miniature  kingdom, 
my  heart  and  mind  were  full  of  good  resolutions. 

This  splendid  fortune  which  had  come  so  unexpectedly  to 
me  should  not  be  spent  on  myself  in  lavish  luxury,  in  gayeties, 
frivolites,  or  senseless  extravagance.  That  I  seriously  re- 
solved. Heaven  had  given  it  to  me,  and  I  would  do  good  with 
it  and  use  it  wisely.  There  should  be  no  bitter  abject  poverty, 
no  sickness  should  go  unrelieved,  there  should  be  no  want  of 
education  on  my  fair  estate  of  Jesmond.  I  would  be  queen 
and  mother  to  my  people.  My  heart  warmed  to  them,  yearned 
over  them,  as  I  stood  and  contemplated  how  boundless 
Dame  Nature  had  dealt  with  the  fruitful  lands  before  me. 
No  motherless  children  should  weep  on  these  fertile  lands. 
My  first  undertaking  would  be  an  orphanage,  to  be  built  down 


FAIR   BUT  FALSE. 


273 


by  the  sea,  yet  so  near  Jesmond  that  I  could  visit  it  every 
day.  No  old  men  or  old  women  should  live  half  starving  and 
die  forlorn  within  the  limits  of  my  domain,  for  I  should  have 
almshouses  that  should  yet  be  comfortable  homes.  The  sick 
should  not  lie  neglected  and  helpless  in  the  cottages  that  were 
mine,  for  I  would  build  a  large  hospital  near  the  village  of 
Mead,  where  the  air  was  clear  and  bracing.  The  children 
should  have  their  schools  and  playgrounds,  and  education 
should  be  free  to  all.  I  would  be  queen  and  mother  in  a 
true  and  real  sense  to  those  whom  heaven  had  in  a  measure 
confided  to  my  charge.  My  heart  and  soul  were  fired  with 
these  resolves. 

The  blue  heavens  shone  above  me ;  the  yielding  earth 
laughed  beneath  my  feet ;  the  air  was  full  of  luscious  odors  of 
May,  the  scent  from  the  pine-forest,  the  brine  from  the  sea, 
and  nearer  to  me  came  heavily-laden  gusts  of  perfume  from 
lilac  and  magnolia  blossom.  I  shall  never  forget  the  moment 
when,  standing  on  the  green  hill-top,  the  shining,  shimmering 
sea  in  the  distance,  I  registered  my  vow  to  live  for  others  and 
not  for  myself  alone. 

The  will  which  gave  me  all  this  wealth  was  indisputably 
clear  and  simple,  and  had  in  it  no  flaw.  My  uncle  Sir  Wil- 
liam Jesmond  had  but  one  son,  Paul,  who  was  his  natural 
heir  and  successor. 

The  Jesmonds  of  Jesmond  Dene  were  a  very  old  family, 
but  at  the  time  when  my  story  begins  their  number  had 
greatly  decreased.  They  had  died  away — fathers,  mothers, 
sisters,  and  brothers — until  there  was  no  one  left  of  a  once 
numerous  race  except  Sir  William,  the  owner  and  lord  of 
Jesmond  Dene,  and  his  sister,  my  mother,  Teresa  Jesmond. 

Sir  William  was  at  heart  a  miser.  He  loved  money  for 
its  own  sake,  and  the  sight  of  it  never  failed  to  bring  a  smile 
to  his  hard  mean  face.  Although  my  mother  was  his  own 
and  only  sister,  when  she  married  he  gave  her  no  dowry,  but 
very  unwillingly  made  her  a  present  of  a  few  hundred  pounds, 
with  an  intimation  that  she  must  ask  for  no  more.  She  never 
did  ;  but  in  those  days,  when  she  deplored  my  uncle's  mean- 
ness, she  never  thought  that  all  his  gold  was  accumulating 
for  me. 

My  mother  had  married  a  clergyman,  the  Rev.  Arthur 
Gordon,  and  I  was  their  only  child.  They  both  died  when  I 


274 


FAIR  BUT  FALSE. 


was  a  girl  of  thirteen,  and  my  father's  sister,  Annette  Gordon, 
took  charge  of  me. 

Sir  William  Jesmond  was  married,  and  a  son  and  heir 
had  been  born  unto  him ;  but  in  his  lifetime  the  home  at  Jes- 
mond Dene  was  not  a  happy  one.  I  went  there  once.  Lady 
Jesmond  had  asked  aunt  Annette  to  bring  me  for  the  summer 
holidays,  and  I  well  remember  the  magnificent  old  house 
with  its  treasures,  the  gardens  and  grounds,  the  woods  and 
the  sea.  I  remember  Sir  William,  a  tall  spare  man  with  a 
mean  face  and  small  cunning  eyes  ;  I  vividly  recollect  Lady 
Jesmond,  a  faded  elegant  woman,  who  seemed  to  me  to  be 
tired  of  life  ;  but  I  remember  best  of  all  my  handsome 
bright  faced  cousin  Paul.  I  was  thirteen  years  of  age  then, 
he  five  years  older.  He  was  very  kind  to  me,  and  I  loved 
him  with  all  the  ardor  of  a  childish  love.  He  was  a  young 
prince  and  a  veritable  hero  in  my  eyes. 

"  Cheer  up,  Felicia  !  "  he  would  say  to  me  twenty  times 
a  day.  "  I  am  going  out  to  see  the  world,  and,  when  I  have 
seen  it,  I  shall  come  home  and  marry  you." 

"  But  Sir  William  will  never  give  us  any  money,"  I  would 
remark  ,with  a  keen  conviction  that  nothing  could  be  done 
without  it. 

"  I  will  make  plenty  of  money,  dear.  My  father  may 
keep  his,"  he  would  answer  cheerfully. 

And,  of  all  the  memories  of  my  girlhood,  that  of  my  hand- 
some, generous,  laughter-loving  cousin  stands  out  the  bright- 
est and  the  best.  How  little  I  dreamed  in  those  days  that  I 
should  ever  take  his  place  ! 

My  life  was  spent  quietly  enough  with  my  aunt  Annette. 
She  had  a  small  annuity,  out  of  which  she  fed,  clothed,  and 
educated  me,  for  I  had  not  in  the  wide  world  one  shilling  of 
my  own. 

It  may  be  imagined  therefore  what  a  change  it  was  for 
me — a  penniless  orphan — when  I  became  sole  heiress  of 
Sir  William  Jesmond  of  Jesmond  Dean,  his  land,  shares,  un- 
told gold,  all  mine. 

Lady  Jesmond  died  when  her  son  was  nineteen,  and 
after  her  death  Sir  William  became,  if  possible,  a  greater 
miser  than  ever,  and  almost  refused  himself  the  necessaries 
of  life.  None  but  the  old  servants  bound  by  strong  ties  to 
the  family  would  tolerate  his  meanness  ;  even  his  son  Paul 
could  not  endure  it.  He  wanted  to  see  the  world,  as  he  had 


FAIR  BUT  FALSE.  375 

always  desired,  and,  after  many  disputes  and  arguments,  Sir 
William  purchased  for  him  a  commission  in  the  — th  Hussars. 
Three  months  after  he  joined  the  regiment  it  was  ordered 
off  to  India,  and  Paul  thankfully  embraced  the  opportunity 
of  getting  away  from  the  paternal  roof  and  "  seeing  the 
world  "  at  the  same  time.  Five  years  passed,  and  there  was 
little  communication  between  father  and  son.  Sir  William's 
was  a  wretched,  miserable  life,  and  it  ended  as  miserably  as 
it  had  been  spent.  He  was  found  dead  in  his  chair,  holding 
in  his  hand  a  letter  written  by  Colonel  Brownlow,  of  the  — th 
Hussars,  telling  him  that  his  son  Captain  Paul  Jesmond  had 
died  suddenly  of  a  malignant  fever  without  having  had  time 
to  write  him  one  word  of  farewell. 

The  old  baronet  had  never  seemed  to  care  much  for 
either  his  wife  or  child,  but  that  letter  killed  him.  He  had 
given  his  life,  his  heart,  his  soul,  to  gold — he  had  worshiped 
his  accumulated  wealth  to  the  exclusion  of  everything  else  in 
life  ;  yet  he  could  not  live  on,  knowing  that  his  handsome, 
careless,  generous  son  had  been  snatched  away  in  the  bloom 
of  early  manhood,  and  he — his  father — denied  the  consola- 
tion of  one  parting  word  or  one  last  look  at  the  face  he 
loved. 

Sir  William  was  buried  in  due  course  ;  and,  when  his  will 
was  read,  it  was  made  clear  that  I,  Felicia  Gordon,  was  sole 
heiress  of  all  his  wealth.  The  terms  of  his  will  were  simple 
enough.  He  left  everything  he  held  in  the  world — land, 
house,  money,  scrip,  and  shares — to  his  son  Paul  Jesmond. 
If  his  son  married  and  had  issue,  the  property  was  to  descend 
intact  to  his  eldest  son.  If  Paul  Jesmond  died  unmarried,  it 
was  to  go  without  reserve  to  his  niece  Felicia  Gordon,  the 
only  child  of  Teresa  Gordon,  his  sister.  It  was  to  descend 
to  her  children  if  she  married  ;  if  she  did  not,  it  passed  to 
some  distant  relatives  to  whom  Sir  William  had  always  enter- 
tained a  strong  antipathy.  That  I  was  the  next  of  kin  there 
was  no  doubt.  Sir  William  was  dead,  Paul  was  dead  ;  Jes- 
mond Dean,  with  its  rich  revenues,  was  mine. 

It  was  early  in  February  when  I  came  with  aunt  Annette 
to  take  possession  of  my  new  home,  and  it  was  the  beginning 
of  May  when  I  made  my  resolve  to  live  for  others  and  not 
for  myself. 

I  had  been  at  Jesmond  Dene  about  three  months,  and  had 
grown  to  love  the  place  and  the  people.  I  had  just  begun 


276  FAIR  BUT  FALSE. 

to  put  my  philanthropic  resolutions  into  shape,  and  my  build- 
ings were  slowly  rising  beneath  the  hands  of  the  many  work- 
men engaged.  The  grand  old  mansion  had  been  renovated — 
some  of  Sir  William's  hoarded  thousands  had  been  spent  up- 
on it — and  the  grounds  and  garden  had  been  rescued  from 
the  weeds  and  long-standing  neglect.  I  had  increased  my 
staff  of  servants — indeed  everything  was  in  the  very  perfec- 
tion of  order — and  I  was  undoubtedly  happy.  I  was  to  be 
happier  still,  although  the  full  light  of  the  sun  was  hidden 
from  me  for  the  present. 


CHAPTER   II. 

A  SMILE  came  over  the  kindly  face  of  my  aunt  Annette 
when  I  told  her  of  my  resolves. 

"  Mother  and  queen  !  "  she  repeated.  "  I  wish  you 
health,  strength,  and  wisdom  to  keep  to  them." 

The  May  sun  never  shown  on  a  brighter  fate  than  mine, 
or  on  a  lighter  heart.  It  was  true  the  shadow  of  death  lay 
over  my  new  inheritance  ;  but  then  I  had  seen  my  uncle 
only  once,  and  that  some  years  before.  For  the  bright-faced 
handsome  cousin  dead  in  a  far-off  land  I  had  the  deepest 
pity,  and  one  of  my  first  acts  was  to  erect  to  his  memory  a 
beautiful  marble  cross — and  that  memorial  was  always  sur- 
rounded by  fragrant  flowers. 

"  All  the  novelty  of  my  position  had  died  away  when  the 
month  of  May  came  round.  I  might  have  been  Miss  Gordon 
of  Jesmond  Dene  all  my  life,  everything  came  so  naturally  to 
me.  The  tenants  liked  and  trusted  me,  the  servants  showed 
me  absolute  devotion,  my  buildings  were  all  in  progress,  my 
aunt  and  I  were  happy  beyond  words  in  the  grand  old  man- 
sion. Our  neighbors  had  called  upon  us,  but  it  was  too 
soon  after  Sir  William's  death  for  us  to  receive  or  pay  visits. 
We  were  happy  enough  without  that — indeed  the  hours  of 
the  day  were  not  sufficiently  long  for  all  the  pleasant  occupa- 
tions we  found  to  engage  us.  Aunt  Annette  was  as  young  at 
heart  as  I  was  myself,  and,  when  the  moon  was  silvering 
the  ripples  of  the  sea,  it  was  no  unusual  thing  for  us  to  wan- 


FAIR  BUT  FALSE. 


277 


der  down  to  the  shore  and  gaze  in  rapturous  awe  and  delight 
at  the  majestic  scene  before  us. 

I  was  nearly  twenty  when  this  great  change  of  fortune 
came  to  me,  but  still  a  girl  in  lightness  of  heart,  in  want  of 
knowledge  of  the  world  and  its  ways — a  girl  with  all  a  girl's 
innocent  love  of  fun  and  frolic.  I  had  had  no  lover;  my 
heart  was  fresh  and  untouched. 

It  is  a  hard  thing  for  a  girl  to  tell  her  own  love-story  as  I 
have  to  tell  mine — to  tell  of  the  dream  that  came  to  me  before 
I  knew  that  my  fair  inheritance  was  to  be  the  scene  of  a 
tragedy — to  disclose  the  beautiful  love-dream  that  came  to  me 
as  the  revelation  of  a  newer,  brighter,  higher  life  than  any  I 
had  yet  known. 

In  the  same  green  county,  on  the  shore  of  the  same  shin* 
ing  sea,  stood  an  old  mansion  called  Dunroon.  It  was  larger 
than  Jesmond  Dene,  though  not  quite  so  picturesque  ;  still 
there  were  not  many  finer  old  places  than  Dunroon.  The 
great  feature  of  it  was  the  river  Doon,  which  ran  through  the 
grounds.  From  the  hill-top  I  could  see  the  tall  towers  and 
turrets  of  Dunroon,  the  ancestral  home  of  the  Saxons. 

When  we  had  been  some  time  at  Jesmond  Dene,  Lady 
Saxon  called  upon  us,  and  was  pleased  from  the  first  moment 
she  saw  me  to  take  great  interest  in  me. 

"  The  Jesmonds  and  the  Saxons  have  been  friends  for 
many  generations,"  she  said:  "they  have  loved  and  inter- 
married. It  seems  strange  that  you  and  I — you  a  young 
woman  and  I  an  old  one — should  be  the  sole  representatives 
of  two  such  ancient  families." 

"  But  you  have  a  son,"  I  remarked — for  I  had  heard  much 
of  Lord  Saxon. 

"  I  do  not  mean  that,"  she  interrupted  hastily.  "  Of 
course  my  son  is  the  representative  of  the  Saxons.  What  I 
intended  to  say  was  that  it.  seems  strange  we  should  both 
have  the  care  of  house  and  estate.  My  son  is  always  in  Italy, 
and  I  do  not  know  when  he  will  return."  Here  she  looked 
at  me  with  sudden  emotion  in  her  face.  "  My  son  is  more 
than  the  whole  world  to  me,"  she  went  on.  "  He  is  the 
very  core  of  my  heart,  the  very  light  of  my  eyes.  The  world 
is  all  shadow  to  me,  but  he  stands  out  clear  and  distinct. 
It  is  the  great  pain  of  my  life  that  he  lives  away  from  me, 
that  he  seems  to  love  art  better  than  nature,  Italy  better  than 
England.  I  cannot  understand  it ;  but  it  is  so." 


278  FAIR  BUT  FALSE. 

Lady  Saxon  was  still  a  handsome  well-preserved  woman, 
with  a  penchant  for  rich  dresses  and  costly  furs,  diamonds 
and  priceless  lace.  I  had  heard  others  say  that  her  son  was 
"  art-mad."  He  had  now  been  five  years  from  home,  during 
which  time  his  mother  had  lived  at  Dunroon,  and  had  man- 
aged everything  for  him.  Indeed  it  was  often  said  that  but 
for  his  mother's  continual  mention  of  him  Lord  Saxon  would 
have  been  forgotten  on  his  own  estate.  My  aunt  and  I  both 
liked  Lady  Saxon,  and  I  often  listened  patiently  by  the  hour 
while  she  expatiated  upon  the  virtues  of  her  darling  son.  He 
was  the  handsomest,  the  dearest,  the  best.  There  was  no  face, 
no  voice  like  his.  The  only  flaw  in  his  otherwise  perfect 
character  was  that  he  would  loiter  in  Italy  instead  of  coming 
home. 

"  Have  you  ever  dreamed  how  beautiful  a  man's  face  can 
be  ? "  she  asked  me.  "  Imagine  one  that  is  dark,  proud, 
tender,  and  imperious,  drawing  the  hearts  of  all  women  who 
look  upon  it — a  face  that  seems  always  raised  to  the  skies 
and  hardly  to  see  the  lowly  earth.  That  is  my  son.  He  is  like 
that.  I  have  seen  women  watch  for  the  gleam  of  his  eyes, 
for  his  smiles,  for  the  words  from  his  lips  ;  but  he  did  not  see 
them.  He  sees  the  stars  that  illumine  the  skies,  but  he  does 
not  see  the  daisies  that  grow  in  the  fields.  When  you  come 
to  Dunroon,  I  will  show  you  his  portrait,  and  when  you  see 
his  face  you  will  understand  better." 

So  it  happened  that  I  thought  a  great  deal  and  formed  a 
very  high  opinion  of  Lord  Saxon  because  his  mother  talked 
to  me  incessantly  and  almost  always  in  praise  of  him. 

"  If  he  were  but  more  like  other  men,"  she  would  say, 
with  a  sigh,  "  if  he  had  ambition,  I  should  not  care  at  what 
he  aimed.  He  thinks  more  of  a  broken  statue  than  a  seat  in 
Parliament.  An  old  picture  has  a  greater  charm  for  him  than 
any  worldly  honors.  Music,  painting,  and  sculpture  are  the 
three  things  that  he  loves  best  ?  and  he  is  an  English  noble- 
man, master  of  a  large  estate,  and  head  of  a  grand  old 
race  !  " 

I  ventured  to  suggest  that  all  noblemen  need  not  have 
the  same  tastes  ;  but  she  was  dissatisfied  because  her  son 
frittered  away  his  time  and  his  opportunities  upon  art  instead 
of  cultivating  the  ordinary  life  of  an  English  nobleman. 

"  My  husband,"  she  said,  "  was  a  stanch  Conservative,  yet 
I  do  not  believe  that  my  son  knows  the  difference  between  a 


FAIR  BUT  FALSE. 


279 


Whig  and  a  Tory.  My  husband  never  allowed  one  foot  of 
timber  to  be  cut  down  on  his  estate  ;  my  son  writes  always 
about  the  preservation  of  pictures.  But  he  is  so  good  that  I 
ought  to  be  ashamed  to  grumble  at  his  one  great  failing." 

"  My  son  is  a  dreamer  of  dreams,"  she  told  me  one  morn- 
ing, when  she  had  driven  over  to  Jesmond  Dene.  "  He  is 
led  astray  by  a  passionate  love  of  beauty.  He  detects  love- 
liness where  others  see  none.  The  curve  of  an  arm,  the 
graceful  arch  of  a  neck,  the  beauty  of  a  dark  straight  brow, 
delight  him.  He  is,  in  fact,  one  of  those  people,  half  artist, 
half  genius,  who  can  'hear  a  leaf  fall.'  Do  you  know  all  that 
that  phrase  means  ?  " 

"  I  can  imagine  it,"  I  replied. 

"  My  son  has  a  theory  that  the  world  can  be  set  straight 
by  a  right  understanding  of  beauty,  and  by  a  proper  cultiva- 
tion of  it  He  is  a  dreamer  in  a  world  of  stern  reality,  and 
some  day  or  other  I  am  sorely  afraid  his  dreams  will  bring 
him  bitter  sorrow.  If  he  would  but  marry  !  " 

"  That  would  perhaps  cure  him  of  dreaming,"  I  said 
laughingly. 

After  that  we  paid  a  visit  to  Dunroon.  While  aunt 
Annette  talked  to  some  visitors,  Lady  Saxon,  addressing  me 
in  a  low  voice  said — 

"  Come  with  me  to  my  boudoir.  My  son's  portrait  hangs 
there,  and  I  want  you  to  see  it." 

1  went  with  her.  There  was  a  strange  wild  beating  at  my 
heart,  a  strange  sense  of  something  unusual.  I  felt  more  as 
though  I  were  going  to  see  a  living  person  than  a  picture. 

The  boudoir  was  an  elegant  room  facing  the  west ;  a  soft 
light  fell  on  the  picture  of  the  master  of  Dunroon,  Lord 
Saxon. 

We  stood  silent  before  it.  She  did  not  even  turn  to  me 
and  say,  "  That  is  my  son."  Looking  at  the  portrait,  I  seemed 
to  know  by  instinct  why  he  could  not  help  his  love  of  beauty, 
and  why  women  loved  him  as  they  looked  upon  him.  It  was 
a  handsome,  even  fascinating  face.  The  kingly  poise  of  the 
head,  the  well-chiseled  features,  the  dark  straight  brows,  the 
keen  dark  eyes  that  seemed  full  of  pride  and  passion — eyes 
that  had  in  them  the  power  of  controling  others — the  shapely 
mouth,  combining  the  firmness  of  a  man  with  the  tenderness 
of  a  woman — the  face  altogether  was  one  that  seen  either  in 
a  picture  or  in  real  life  must  haunt  you  forever,  The  eyes 


28o  fAIR  BUT  FALSE. 

looked  into  mine  as  I  stood  silently  marveling  at  the  beauty 
portrayed  on  the  canvas. 

"  That  is  my  son,"  said  Lady  Saxon,  after  we  had  gazed 
for  some  time  upon  the  strangely  fascinating  picture. 

Why  did  I  stand  there  with  fast-beating  heart  and  flushed 
face  ?  Why  did  my  hands  tremble  ?  Why  did  those  dark 
tender  eyes  flash  into  mine  as  it  were  ?  I  turned  to  her 
ladyship. 

"  What  is  your  son's  name  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Lionel,"  she  answered,  smiling ;  "  but  at  home  he  was 
always  called  '  Nello.' " 

Again  I  lapsed  into  silence. 

"  His  face  is  full  of  power,"  said  his  mother  proudly. 

"  Yes,"  I  answered,  with  unconscious  prophecy  ;  "  but  the 
power  is  latent.  It  will  not  develop  yet.  He  must  dream 
out  his  dreams,  and  then — " 

"  Ah,  then  ?  "  his  mother  echoed  with  a  sigh. 

I  had  seen  no  face  like  the  one  before  me.  I  had  not 
believed  that  Nature  was  so  lavish  in  the  bestowal  of  her 
riches  upon  mortal  man.  I  went  home  haunted  by  Lord 
Saxon's  portrait.  If  I  looked  at  the  western  sky  where  the 
great  rosy  clouds  were  gathering,  it  was  there  ;  if  I  looked 
along  the  serried  rows  of  dark  pine  trees,  it  was  there  ;  when 
the  moon  shone  out  at  night,  and  I  walked  down  to  see  it 
glittering  on  the  sea,  the  face  was  there.  It  came  to  me  in 
the  starlight,  in  my  dreams,  in  the  rays  of  the  sun.  I  saw  it 
in  the  chalice  of  the  white  lilies,  and  in  the  hearts  of  the  red 
roses. 

"  I  am  haunted,"  I  said  to  myself.  And  even  as  the  face 
seemed  to  be  photographed  on  my  brain,  so  the  name  rang 
like  music  in  my  ears,  "  Nello,  Nello!  "  The  birds  sung  it, 
the  wind  whispered  it,  and  I  laughed  at  my  strange  fancies. 


CHAPTER  III. 

So  little  did  I  realize  or  understand  this  new  sensation 
which  possessed  my  whole  being  that  I  laughed  again  when 
Lady  Saxon  drove  over  to  the  hall  and  we  spent  two  long 
hours  in  discussing  her  son. 


FAIR  BUT  FALSE.  281 

"  I  like  to  speak  to  you  about  Nello,"  she  said,  "  you  seem 
to  understand  him.  I  know  that  talking  about  him  so  fre- 
quently is  a  weakness  of  mine,  and  at  times  I  see  a  half-satiri- 
cal smile  on  the  faces  of  many  of  my  listeners  ;  but  you  never 
smile  and  never  tire — you  understand." 

So,  from  the  clay  on  which  we  stood  side  by  side  before 
his  portrait,  the  young  lord  seemed  to  form  a  tie  between  the 
mother  and  myself. 

Aunt  Annette  was  much  amused  at  the  ardent  friendship 
which  Lady  Saxon  had  evinced  for  me. 

"  If  you  were  Lady  Saxon's  own  daughter,  she  could  not 
care  more  for  you,"  she  would  say  to  me. 

Why  did  those  simple  words,  so  carelessly  uttered,  touch 
my  very  heart  ?  Of  course  he  would  come  home  some  day, 
and  I  should  see  him  ;  and  he  would  talk  to  me,  this  dreamer 
of  dreams,  because  his  mother  loved  me.  Then  my  thoughts 
would  become  confused  and  my  heart  beat  more  quickly  than 
ever. 

One  morning  Lady  Saxon  drove  over  with  a  bundle  of 
letters  from  her  son  to  read  to  me.  They  were  dated  from 
different  places,  and  in  several  of  them  he  spoke  of  coming 
home  ;  but  no  definite  lime  was  mentioned. 

"  He  may  come  at  any  time  now,"  said  Lady  Saxon — "  at 
any  hour.  If  Heaven  will  but  give  me  my  son  once  again, 
he  shall  not  leave  me.  I  wish  he  would  marry." 

As  she  spoke  she  fixed  her  eyes  on  my  face,  and  my  in- 
stinct told  me  that  in  her  heart  she  added,  "  I  wish  he  would 
marry  you  ;  "  and  that  look  in  her  eyes  was  often  there  when 
she  spoke  to  me  of  Lord  Saxon. 

It  was  early  in  June  and  the  world  seemed  a  paradise  of 
beauty,  fragrance,  and  song;  the  great  magnolia  trees  on  the 
lawn  were  all  in  bloom,  and  the  light  breeze  wafted  the  per- 
fume of  myriads  of  flowers.  I  had  some  fine  white  jasmine 
that  was  in  the  full  perfection  of  beauty,  and,  as  Lady  Saxon 
was  very  fond  of  it,  I  resolved  to  drive  over  and  take  her 
some.  The  birds  were  trilling  their  tuneful  lays,  the  banks 
and  hedges  were  resplendent  with  clusters  of  wild-flowers, 
whilst  the  wind  played  musically  as  it  rustled  gently  among 
the  leaves  of  the  lime-trees.  All  nature  appeared  in  its 
brightest  garb  and  its  gayest  mood.  To  my  girlish  fancy, 
excited  by  always  hearing  of  the  young  lord,  the  birds  sung 
"  Nello  "  in  their  shrill  sweet  voices,  and  the  wind  whispered 


2g2  FAIX  BUT  FALSE. 

"  Nello  "  to  the  green  lime-leaves  that  had  on  them  a  half 
golden  glow. 

I  drove  through  the  wealth  of  rich  summer  foliage  and 
flowers,  always  keeping  to  view  the  murmuring  sea,  as  it 
rolled  lazily  in  the  golden  sunlight,  until  I  came  to  Dunroon's 
stately  mansion. 

A  groom  came  out  and  relieved  me  of  the  high-spirited 
ponies. 

"  Her  ladyship  is  in  the  garden,  Miss  Gordon,"  he  said, 
knowing  that  I  always  made  my  way  straight  to  her  wherever 
she  was. 

Yes ;  her  ladyship  was  in  the  garden,  her  hands  full  of 
crimson  roses,  and  a  light  on  her  pleasant  face  such  as  I  had 
never  seen  before. 

"  Felice,"  she  cried,  when  she  saw  me — she  always  used 
the  French  form  of  my  name — "  Felice,  what  good  angel  has 
brought  you  here  ?  " 

"  I  came  to  bring  you  this,"  I  answered,  holding,  out  the 
white  odorous  jasmine.  "  Let  me  twine  it  with  your  roses," 
I  said  ;  and,  lo,  she  was  looking  at  me  with  tears  in  her 
eyes  ! 

"  This  is  not  the  only  welcome  gift  that  has  come  to  me 
to-day,"  she  murmured  to  herself.  "  Come  with  me,  Felice  ; 
I  have  something  to  show  you,"  she  said ;  and  I  followed 
her,  my  hands  filled  to  overflowing  with  the  fragrant  flowers. 

She  led  the  way  to  a  pretty  little  drawing-room,  called 
Sea  View  room,  from  the  fact  that  a  magnificent  view  of  the 
sea,  of  the  stretch  of  yellow  sands,  and  of  the  blue  waters 
that  came  rolling  in,  breaking  into  sheets  of  white  foam, 
could  be  obtained  from  the  long  wide  windows.  She  entered 
the  room  quietly,  and  I  followed.  By  the  open  window,  in- 
tently watching  the  inrolling  of  the  waves,  stood  a  tall  young 
man,  and  when  he  turned  at  the  sound  of  our  entrance,  I  saw 
the  face  of  Lord  Saxon—"  Nello,"  as  the  birds,  the  leaves, 
the  wind  sung  it ;  "  Nello,"  as  the  word  fell  like  two  notes 
of  liquid  music  from  his  mother's  lips  ;  but  Lord  Saxon  to 
me.  As  she  had  taken  me  to  see  his  portrait,  so  she  now 
brought  me  to  see  him  in  person.  She  led  me  to  him. 

"  Nello,"  she  said,  "  this  is  my  new  neighbor  Miss  Felicia 
Gordon,  the  '  Felice  '  of  whom  I  have  written  so  often.  Though 
I  am  an  old  lady  and  she  a  young  one,  we  are  very  fast 
Wends." 


FAIR  BUT  FALSE.  283 

"  My  mother's  friends  are  always  mine,"  he  said,  holding 
out  his  hand  to  me  in  the  most  cordial  manner. 

I  wish  I  could  describe  what  I  then  felt.  In  our  lives 
there  are  moments  so  full  of  emotion  that  they  seem  to  mark 
a  turn  in  them  that  we  never  reach  again. 

This  was  such  a  moment  for  me.  I  could  not  describe 
it.  At  first  I  felt  almost  a  shock,  as  though  the  picture  had 
suddenly  come  to  life  and  the  dark  tender  eyes  were  again 
smiling  down  into  mine.  Then  I  saw  the  dancing  waves 
crest-tipped  by  the  powerful  rays  of  the  summer  sun,  I  saw 
the  bouquet  of  fragrant  flowers  that  I  held  in  my  hands.  Ah, 
me,  to  this  day  the  sight  and  the  scent  of  those  flowers  vividly 
bring  back  the  past  to  me  !  When  I  look  at  them,  Swin- 
burne's line  comes  home  to  me  with  singular  force — 

"  I  shall  never  again  be  friends  with  roses." 

And  then  I  raised  my  eyes  and  looked  at  the  original  of  the 
picture  that  had  so  strangely  fascinated  me.  It  was  as 
though  I  had  raised  them  to  the  warm  noonday  sun,  as  though 
a  thrill  of  fever  passed  through  my  veins  ;  my  heart  beat 
violently,  my  face  flushed,  some  of  the  flowers  fell  unheeded 
to  the  ground.  I  remembered  what  his  mother  had  said, 
that  all  women  who  looked  into  his  face  loved  him.  Did  I  ? 
The  very  thought  made  me  tremble  ;  but  it  was  not  with 
fear.  He  was  speaking  to  me,  of  what  I  hardly  know,  for  in 
the  spell  his  presence  cast  over  me,  I  saw  nothing  but  the 
surpassing  loveliness  of  his  marvelous  face.  All  the  attributes 
of  a  noble  character  were  delineated  in  it,  and  it  had  an  in- 
definable something  which,  without  my  knowing  it,  drew  my 
heart  from  my  breast  and  kept  it. 

"  What  a  glorious  bouquet  you  have,"  he  was  saying  ; 
"  and  how  beautiful  they  are  !  I  did  not  know  that  red  roses 
and  white  jasmine  went  so  well  together." 

"  That  is  Felice's  taste,"  said  Lady  Saxon ;  "  and  it  is 
perfect." 

"  It  is  like  herself,"  he  remarked,  with  a  glance  of  un- 
mistakable admiration. 

Ten  minutes  later  I  was  sitting  on  the  couch  by  the  great 
window.  Lady  Saxon  had  taken  off  my  hat  and  mantle,  her 
son  had  relieved  me  of  my  burden  of  flowers,  and  I  was  at 


284  FAIR  SUT  FALSE. 

home  with  them — happy,  light  of  heart,  but  with  a  strange 
sensation  of  almost  terrified  delight,  something  quite  new  to 
me.  I  could  not  tell  which  was  the  greater,  the  pleasure  or 
the  pain  of  it.  I  did  not  often  look  at  him  ;  but  my  ears 
drank  in  every  word  that  he  uttered.  I  had  never  before 
known  the  charm  of  a  good  talker,  and  to  me  the  flow  of  his 
words  was  like  listening  to  a  strain  of  sweet  music.  He  had 
a  low,  clear,  cheery  voice,  and  a  laugh  that  it  did  one  good 
to  hear.  Looking  back  on  that  day,  I  blame  myself.  No 
girl  ought  to  give  her  love  unasked.  It  is  unmaidenly,  un- 
dignified ;  but  it  was  more  Lady  Saxon's  fault  than  mine. 
She  had  sown  the  seed,  and  I  was  to  reap  the  harvest. 

Lady  Saxon  begged  me  to  stay  for  the  day,  and,  assuming 
that  she  had  my  consent,  ordered  the  carriage  to  fetch  aunt 
Annette.  It  was  a  day  of  days !  I  could  no  more  describe 
it  than  I  could  paint  the  rose,  the  gold,  and  the  purple  that 
flush  the  morning  sky.  It  was  the  day  on  which  my  soul 
woke  to  maturity ;  and  the  dawning  of  that  new  life  was  ter- 
rible even  in  its  beauty.  It  was  brightest  sun  and  deepest 
shadow — sun  when  the  light  of  his  face  was  turned  upon  me, 
when  he  spoke  to  me,  when  he  showed  me  any  gracious  little 
act  of  attention ;  shade  when  he  was  absent  or  engrossed 
with  another. 

We  were  out  on  the  lawn  under  the  white  magnolia-tree, 
and  he  was  talking  to  me  of  the  power  of  its  perfume.  When 
we  came  to  the  sweet  syringa-trees,  he  told  me  a  legend  of 
one  of  his  ancestresses,  who  broke  off  a  spray  to  give  to  her 
lover  when  he  was  going  to  the  wars,  and  it  was  returned  to 
her  dyed  with  his  heart's  blood. 

"  It  was  taken  from  this  very  tree,"  he  said. 

After  dinner,  when  we  were  out  under  the  cypress,  Lord 
Saxon  told  me  how  often  his  mother  had  written  about  me, 
and  how  well  he  knew  the  name  of  Felicia  Gordon. 

"  There  was  one  surprise  in  store  for  me,"  he  said  with  a 
smile.  "  I  thought  you  were  a  staid  matronly  lady,  and  I 
found  you  a  young  girl.  I  was  astonished  when  I  saw  your 
face  behind  that  great  mass  of  flowers." 

I  longed  with  all  my  passionate  young  heart  to  ask  him 
if  he  had  found  my  face  fair,  if  it  had  pleased  him.  But  no 
— he  must  never  know  that  his  mother  had  made  me  love 
him  before  he  returned  home.  And  as  we  stood  under  the 


FAIR  BUT  FALSE.  285 

dark  boughs  of  the  cypress,  watching  the  sun  set  over  the 
river  and  the  pine-woods,  these  words  came  into  my  mind — 

"  My  mother,  list'ning  to  my  sleep, 

Heard  nothing  but  a  sigh  at  night — 
The  short  sigh  rippling  on  the  deep, 
When  hearts  run  out  of  breath  and  sight 
Of  men  to  God's  clear  sight. 

"  When  others  named  thee,  thought  thy  brows 

Were  straight  and  tender — '  Here 
He  comes  between  the  vineyard  rows  1 ' 
I  said  not  '  Ay,'  nor  waited,  dear, 
To  feel  thy  step  too  near." 

I  would  be  like  the  girl  in  the  song,  I  determined.  No 
one  should  know,  no  one  should  even  guess  my  secret ;  no 
one  should  read  it  in  my  face,  or  hear  it  in  my  voice,  or  see 
it  shining  in  my  eyes.  It  never  need  be,  never  should  be 
known.  I  could  and  would  guard  my  secret. 

At  last  this  day  of  supreme  happiness  came  to  an  end. 
There  could  be  no  other  like  it,  just  as  there  could  be  no 
second  sunrise,  no  second  birth  of  the  lily  and  the  rose.  It 
was  the  first  dawn  of  love,  delicious  yet  bewildering. 

I  drove  home  with  Aunt  Annette  under  the  light  of  the 
stars,  but  I  did  not  see  them.  When  I  raised  my  face  to  the 
heavens,  I  saw  only  the  face  of  Nello,  Lord  Saxon. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

"  Do  you  like  my  son,  Felice  ? "  asked  Lady  Saxon,  some 
days  afterward.  "  Is  he  what  you  expected  to  find  him  ?  Did 
I  describe  him  well  ?  " 

I  did  not  dare  to  look  straight  at  her  when  I  answered  the 
question  ;  but  I  saw  a  smile  on  her  lips. 

He  had  been  home  a  fortnight  then,  and  I  had  for- 
gotten what  life  had  been  like  before  he  came  to  Dunroon. 
The  past  and  the  future  held  no  charm  for  me.  I  had  no 
thought  but  for  the  present,  with  its  unalloyed  happiness,  its 
ravishing  delight. 

We  never  tired  of  each  other,  for  we  had,  after  all,  many 
ideas  and  tastes  in  common.  He  was  an  excellent  talker,  I 


BUT  FALSE. 

a  good  listener.  No  one  seemed  to  think  it  strange  thatwe 
passed  long  hours  together.  Lady  Saxon  made  no  comment, 
my  aunt  no  remark.  Few  days  passed  without  an  invitation 
to  Dunroon ;  and  if  we  did  not  accept  it,  Lord  Saxon  would 
come  to  Jesmond  Dene.  And  every  morning  the  delight, 
the  novelty,  with  its  mixture  of  passionate  happiness  and 
transient  pain,  grew  stronger  upon  me.  He  was  a  dreamer 
of  dreams,  a  lover  of  beauty,  poet  and  artist  in  one.  But  to 
my  thinking,  there  was  no  one  else  in  the  world  like  him — he 
stood  alone. 

He  never  even  hinted  at  love  ;  yet  he  was  always  kind, 
gentle,  and  attentive  ;  and  I  felt  sure  that  he  admired  me, 
for  he  had  made  many  sketches  of  me.  I  flattered  myself 
that  my  love  for  him  was  carefully  concealed,  that  no  one 
knew  of  it,  that  it  was  hidden  in  the  innermost  recess  of  my 
heart. 

"  Nothing  is  better,  I  well  think, 

Than  love  ;   the  hidden  well-water 
Is  not  so  delicate  to  drink." 

I  felt  sure  that  he  was  growing  to  love  me,  for  there  was 
between  us  an  intangible  something  denoting  a  stronger 
feeling  than  friendship.  When  he  spoke  to  me,  his  voice  had 
a  low  and  tender  tone  ;  when  he  looked  at  me,  his  eyes  shone 
with  evident  admiration.  I  had  a  sure  conviction  that  he 
thought  of  me,  remembered  my  words,  studied  to  please  me 
— and  was  not  that  growing  love  ? 

One  evening  we  stood  together  by  a  picturesque  acacia, 
and,  carelessly  gathering  a  spray  of  it,  I  held  it  out  to  him. 

"  There  are  not  many  fairer  flowers,"  I  said  ;  and,  as  he 
took  it  from  me,  he  kissed  my  hand. 

On  another  occasion  we  were  standing  in  the  library,  both 
searching  for  a  book,  which  he  found  ;  and,  as  he  stooped  to 
give  it  to  me,  he  touched  my  brow  with  his  lips.  In  that 
moment  all  the  brightness  and  sweetness  of  heaven  seemed  to 
be  showered  upon  me  !  He  was  learning  to  love  me  !  And  he 
kissed  me  again  in  the  woods,  when  we  wandered  thither  to 
listen  to  the  nightingales.  And,  as  we  strolled  on  in  the 
silvery  moonlight  which  pierced  the  leafy  canopy  above  us, 
with  only  the  musical  trill  of  the  birds  breaking  the  silence, 
I  thought  how  applicable  these  lines  were  to  me — 

"  First  time  he  kissed  me,  he  but  only  kissed 
The  fingers  of  this  hand  with  which  I  write ; 


FAIR  BUT  FALSE.  287 

And  ever  since  it  grew  more  clear  and  bright, 
Slow  to  world  greetings,  quick  with  its  '  Oh,  listl ' 
When  the  angels  speak.     A  ring  of  amethyst 

I  could  not  wear  here  plainer  to  my  sight 

Than  that  first  kiss.     The  second  passed  in  height 
The  first,  and  sought  the  forehead,  and  half  missed, 
Half  falling  on  the  hair.     Oh,  beyond  meed 

That  was  the  chrism  of  love,  which  love's  own  crown 
With  sanctifying  sweetness  did  precede  ! 

The  the  third  upon  my  lips  was  folded  down, 
Two  perfect  purple  states,  since  when  ended 

I  have  been  proud,  and  said, '  My  love,  my  own  1  '  " 

In  all  England  there  was  no  place  so  famous  for  nightin- 
gales as  Jesmond  Dene.  There  was  a  whole  colony  of  the 
sweet  songsters  in  the  trees  that  grew  near  the  pine-forest,  and 
they  sung  as  surely  never  nightingales  sung  elsewhere.  I  lis- 
tened to  them  often,  when  it  seemed  to  me  that  they  wiled  by 
.  their  melodious  music  the  very  heart  from  my  breast.  But 
one  evening — we  had  been  at  Dunroon  all  day — I  was  talking 
enthusiastically  of  the  nightingales,  when  most  of  the  guests 
present  expressed  a  wish  to  hear  them,  and  it  was  arranged 
that,  as  it  was  a  fine  moonlit  night,  we  should  all  drive  back 
to  Jesmond  Dene  and  stroll  to  the  woods ;  afterward  the 
guests  were  to  take  some  refreshment  at  the  hall,  and  then 
return  home. 

"  It  will  be  a  beautiful  evening,  Felicia,"  said  Lord  Saxon 
to  me — by  this  time  mother  and  son  had  both  learned  to  ad- 
dress me  by  my  Christian  name. 

From  the  moment  we  left  Jesmond  Dene  until  we  reached 
the  woods,  it  was  all  a  happy  dream  to  me.  I  did  not  notice 
how  the  different  groups  arranged  themselves  ;  all  I  know  was 
that  a  voice,  the  very  tone  of  which  made  my  heart  vibrate 
with  joy,  said — 

Lord  Saxon  was  looking  into  my  face ;  and  with  a  flut- 
tering heart  and  a  deep  color  rising  to  my  cheeks  I  turned  to 
accompany  him. 

Slowly  we  walked  by  the  great  sombre  trees,  listening  to 
the  river  as  it  rushed  past  the  projecting  rocks  in  its  seem- 
ingly mad  haste  to  reach  the  sea  ;  at  the  silent  twinkling  stars 
as  they  kept  their  vigil  in  the  heavens  above.  There  can 
never  again  come  such  a  night  for  me. 

I  look  back  to  that  evening  as  the  one  perfectly  happy 
evening  of  my  life.  It  was  not  the  full  sunrise  of  love  ;  it 


,$8  PAIR  BUT  FALSE. 

was  the  fresh  tremulous  dawn.  Lord  Saxon  said  little,  and 
the  silence  that  lay  between  us  was  more  eloquent  than 
words. 

"  Through  his  words  the  nightingales 

Drove  straight  and  full  their  clear  long  call, 
Like  arrows  through  heroic  mails  ; 
And  love  was  awful  in  it  all — 

The  nightingales,  the  nightingales  1  " 

It  was  on  this  occasion  that  he  kissed  my  lips ;  and  I 
vowed  that  no  other's  kiss  should  ever  lie  there.  A  nightin- 
gale that  had  been  singing  melodiously  suddenly  flew  from  one 
tree  to  another,  and  we  watched  the  flight  of  the  bird  in  the 
pale  light  of  the  moon. 

"  Look,  Felicia,"  cried  Lord  Saxon  ;  "  it  is  there  !  " 

I  looked  up  eagerly,  and  then,  as  my  face  was  lowered 
again,  he  caught  it  and  kissed  my  lips ;  while  I  heard  him 
whisper,  "  Ever  dearest  Felicia  ! "  The  music  of  his  voice 
and  the  sweetness  of  the  caress  seemed  to  me  one.  Then 
footsteps  and  laughing  voices  drew  near  us,  and  the  charm 
was  dispelled.  But  in  that  moment  I  learned  what  many  pass 
a  long  life  without  learning — the  very  ecstasy  of  love. 

"  You  have  caught  the  moonlight  in  your  eyes,  Felicia," 
said  aunt  Annette,  when  we  entered  the  brilliantly-lighted 
drawing-room.  "  You  looked  dazed." 

So  I  was  ;  but  it  was  with  happiness  and  love,  not  with 
the  light  of  the  moon.  When  our  visitors  prepared  to  depart 
aunt  Annette  and  I  accompanied  them  to  the  end  of  the  lawn. 
Oh,  fair  white  moon,  never  again  will  you  shine  for  me  with 
the  same  light !  Never  more  will  rose-leaf  and  lily-bloom  be 
so  sweet;  never  again  will  summer* wind  waft  me  such  love- 
laden  messages  ! 

He  held  my  hand  tightly  in  his  own  as  we  walked  across 
the  lawn  to  the  drive  where  the  carriages  were  in  readiness 
As  we  passed  the  cluster  of  acacia-trees,  he  said,  bending 
down,  and  looking  tenderly  into  my  eyes — 

"I  shall  never  forget  this  night,  Felicia." 

"  Nor  shall  I,"  I  answered. 

"  What  does  it  all  mean,  Felicia  ?  "  he  asked.  "  What 
does  the  summer  wind  whisper  ?  What  do  the  nightingales 
sing  ?  What  thrills  in  the  air  and  shines  in  the  stars  ?  What 
is  it,  my — my  darling  ?  Do  you  know  ?  " 


FAIR  BUT  FALSE.  289, 

I  bowed  my  head — ah  me  ! — as  I  answered,  "  Yes." 
"  I  will  come  to-morrow,"  he  whispered,  "  and  tell  you 
what  it  means.     Good-night,  Felicia." 


CHAPTER  V. 

TO-MORROW  !  I  closed  my  eyes  that  night  in  an  ecstasy  of 
delight.  The  calm  serenity  of  the  night-skies,  the  gentle  rip- 
ple of  green  leaves,  the  silver  light  of  the  moon,  and  the  dark 
handsome  face  of  my  lover — I  dared  in  my  own  heart  to  use 
the  word — were  with  me  in  my  dreams.  The  song  of  the 
nightingales  and  my  lover's  voice  blended  harmoniously, 
greeting  my  ears  with  sweet  melody  as  I  dreamed  on  of  the 
morrow.  "  Felicia — good-night,  Felicia  !  "  was  the  burden 
of  the  melody ;  and  its  ravishing  strains  fell  soothingly  on  my 
senses. 

"  To-morrow,"  was  come.  The  sun  was  gilding  the  earth 
with  its  resplendent  rays,  the  birds  carol  their  songs  of  de- 
light, the  gentle  wind,  kissing  the  flowers,  wafted  their  per- 
fume abroad.  Nello  was  coming  to  tell  me  "  what  it  all 
meant."  I  knew  that  one  word  explained  it,  and  that  word 
was  "  love."  He  was  coming.  Patience — he  would  be  here 
soon,  and  then  my  life  would  be  crowned  by  the  possession 
of  his  love  ! 

I  was  standing  under  the  spreading  cedar-boughs,  antici- 
pating in  thought  the  happiness  that  was  to  be  mine,  when  a 
letter  was  brought  to  me.  I  had  gone  thither,  knowing  that 
he  must  pass  by  the  spot.  The  golden  sunlight  that  pierced 
through  the  drooping  boughs  was  warm  and  pleasant.  He 
would  stand  beside  me,  and  he  would  tell  me  "  what  it  all 
meant."  Taking  the  letter  from  the  bearer,  a  thrill  passed 
through  me.  I  knew  by  instinct  that  the  note  was  from  him. 
I  opened  it  hastily.  It  ran  thus — my  first  love-letter — 

"  I  had  hoped  to  be  with  you  to-day,  Felicia,  as  I  have 
much  to  say  to  you.  But  I  have  just  received  a  telegram  from 
my  agent  in  Ireland,  and,  if  I  want  to  save  my  property  there 
from  utter  destruction,  I  must  go  at  once.  I  shall  not  be 


29o  FAIR  BUT  FALSE. 

long  absent.     I  hope  to  be  back  with  you  before  th'e  nightin- 
gales have  ceased  to  sing." 

Though  the  sun  was  shedding  its  warmth  around,  a  sudden 
gray  chill  fell  over  everything.  All  the  gold  seemed  to  fade 
from  the  sunlight,  the  perfume  to  depart  from  the  flower,  the 
light  from  the  skies,  the  glory  from  earth  and  sea.  A  mist 
of  passionate  tears  rose  before  my  eyes  as  I  saw  my  cup  of 
happiness  dashed  to  the  ground.  It  was  not  "  to-morrow  " 
after  all ;  and  I  remembered  how  people  always  said  that  to- 
morrow never  came.  But  he  would  return.  I  felt  grieved, 
disappointed,  but  not  fearful.  Lady  Saxon  had  often  spoken 
to  me  of  their  Irish  estate,  Lochfin,  and  had  expressed  a 
wish  that  Lionel  would  sell  it.  The  tenants  were  always  in 
rebellion  against  the  agent,  and  she  was  nervous  lest  harm 
should  come  to  her  son.  He  laughed  at  the  idea.  He  was 
not  afraid  of  disaffection  or  open  rebellion,  so  he  had  gone 
amongst  them  ;  and  I — 

Well,  the  summer  was  not  over,  the  roses  had  not  ceased 
to  bloom.  All  would  come  right  if  I  had  but  the  patience 
to  wait.  I  should  soon  again  see  the  face  I  loved  so  well. 

But,  notwithstanding  my  self-administered  solace,  a  chill 
had  come  over  the  warm  summer  day,  and  I  wondered 
vaguely  why  I  had  allowed  my  own  life  to  be  so  completely 
absorbed  in  his.  Why  should  this  terrible  dread  possess  me 
because  he  was  not  with  me  ?  And  what — oh,  the  horror  of 
it ! — what  if  he  never  came  back  ? 

An  hour  afterward,  while  I  was  still  standing  under  the 
cedars  a  second  letter  came.  It  was  from  Lady  Saxon.  Brief, 
but  to  the  point,  it  ran — 

"  Come  and  comfort  me,  Felicia — I  have  lost  my  son 
again  !  I  want  to  talk  to  you  about  him." 

I  went  at  once.  Aunt  Annette  kissed  me  with  a  quiet 
smile.  I  think  she  understood  more  of  my  affairs  than  she 
chose  to  let  me  know. 

"  My  son,  my  son  !  "  That  was  the  burden  of  Lady 
Saxon's  cry ;  yet  she  was  not  sorry  that  he  had  gone  to  Ireland, 
for  she  firmly  believed  in  his  ability  to  allay  the  anger  aroused 
against  his  agent.  "  When  the  people  see  him,  they  will  be 
sure  to  love  him,"  she  argued,  with  motherly  pride.  "  There 
could  be  no  better  cure  for  disaffection  than  seeing  and  con- 
versing with  my  son." 


FAIR  BUT  FALSE. 


291 


And  when  the  day  was  over  she  walked  with  me  to  the 
end  of  the  drive. 

"  You  have  comforted  me  greatly,  Felicia,"  she  said. 
"  What  should  I  do  without  you  ?  I  wish  you  were  my  own 
daughter." 

A  few  moments  afterward  she  added — 

"  Oh,  Felicia,  I  should  be  the  happiest  woman  in  the 
whole  wide  word  if  Nello  fell  in  love  with  you  and  you  agreed 
to  marry  him  !  I  wonder,  if  he  asked  you  to  be  his  wife, 
whether  you  would  say  '  Yes  ? '  I  almost  think  you  would." 

I  could  laugh  happily  at  the  words,  knowing  what  he  had 
whispered  to  me. 

"  My  daughter  Felicia,"  she  murmured,  when  I  had  taken 
my  seat  in  the  pony  carriage — "  fair  as  the  sweetest  flower 
that  blows ! " 

And  with  those  pleasant  words  ringing  in  my  ears  I 
hastened  home. 

The  last  rays  of  the  setting  sun  were  falling  over  Jesmond 
Dene  as  I  drew  near  ;  a  golden  light  lingered  on  the  distant 
sea,  on  the  pine-wood,  on  the  rushing  river,  on  the  green 
pastures  and  the  picturesque  pile  of  buildings,  which  I  had 
learned  to  love  so  well.  No  warning  of  coming  tempest  came 
to  me  ;  no  shadow  lay  on  the  lovely  Dene  ;  no  presentiment 
of  coming  evil  possessed  me.  But  there  at  the  great  entrance 
door  looking  pale  and  anxious,  stood  my  aunt  Annette. 

She  held  out  her  hands  to  me  as  I  ascended  the  flight  of 
marble  steps. 

"  Welcome  home,  my  dear  !  "  she  said  ;  but  there  was  a 
strange  ring  in  her  voice,  and  a  troubled  look  was  on  her  face. 
-'  You  look  tired,  Felicia,"  she  continued,  "you  must  have  a 
glass  of  wine.  Come  in  here  with  me." 

Somewhat  to  my  surprise,  she  led  the  way  into  one  of  the 
small  drawing-rooms  that  we  seldom  used,  and  stood  by  in 
silence  while  I  drank  the  wine. 

"  There  is  a  little  surprise  for  you,  Felicia,"  she  began,  in 
a  trembling  voice.  "  Mr.  Benson  is  here." 

Mr.  Benson  was  the  family  solicitor,  and  had  for  many 
years  been  intrusted  with  the  management  of  the  Jesmond 
affairs.  Sir  William  had  the  most  implicit  faith  in  him. 
"  Benson  says  so  !  "  was  affirmation  strong  enough  for  any- 
thing. Benson  had  advised  him  with  all  his  •  investments  ; 
Benson  had  drawn  up  the  will  which  made  me,  in  consequence 


292 


FAIR  BUT  FALSE. 


of  Paul's  death,  heiress  of  Jesmond  Dene  ;  Benson  had  brought 
us  down  to  the  Dene,  and  had  remained  with  us  a  whole 
week,  instructing  me  in  my  new  duties,  and  teaching  me  much 
of  which  I  had  previously  been  quite  ignorant.  It  was  he 
who  had  approved  all  my  plans  for  building,  and  who  had 
told  me  that  I  could  not  spend  Sir  William's  hoarded 
thousands  in  a  better  fashion. 

I  felt  no  alarm  at  hearing  that  he  had  come,  even  though 
it  was  suddenly  and  without  notice.  I  was  much  more  troubled 
about  aunt  Annette,  for  she  seemed  so  unlike  herself. 

"  He  came  soon  after  you  had  gone  to  Dunroon,"  she 
went  on  nervously.  "  He  wanted  me  to  send  for  you,  but  I 
thought  you  should  have  one  more  happy  day." 

"  Mr.  Benson  would  never  make  me  unhappy,"  I  laughed. 
"  He  is  always  the  bearer  of  good  news  to  me." 

She  looked  at  me  wistfully. 

"  Mr.  Benson  desires  a  long  talk  with  you  on  business 
matters,"  she  explained.  "  You  had  better  defer  it  until  after 
dinner." 

"I  will  do  that  with  pleasure,"  I  answered,  little  imagin- 
ing the  nature  of  the  business. 

Had  I  been  less  engrossed  in  my  own  love-story,  I  should 
have  known  from  Mr.  Benson's  nervous  hesitating  manner 
that  something  of  more  than  usual  importance  was  amiss. 
While  I  was  talking  to  the  grave  old  lawyer,  while  I  was 
dining  with  him,  I  was  in  fancy  looking  into  my  absent  lover's 
face  and  listening  to  the  notes  of  the  nightingales. 

"  Can  you  spare  an  hour  this  evening,"  inquired  Mr. 
Benson,  "  or  shall  I  defer  my  business  until  the  morning  ? " 

It  appeared  to  me  that  he  was  not  unwilling  to  defer  it. 
I  had  never  seen  him  so  unlike  himself  confused,  hesitating, 
glancing  at  me  strangely,  beginning  a  speech,  then  ending 
abruptly. 

I  said  to  him  at  last — 

"  You  are  not  well,  Mr.  Benson." 

"  No  ;  I  am  in  great  distress."  he  answered. 

"  In  distress  ?  "  It  was  such  a  strange  confession  for  him 
to  make.  "In  distress?"  I  repeated.  "You  are  not  ill,  I 
hope  ?  You  have  not  met  with  any  misfortune  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  ill,  and  the  misfortune  that  depresses  me  is 
not  mine,"  he  -said, 


FAIR  BUT  FALSE.  393 

"  Not  yours !  "  I  exclaimed  ;  and  his  grave  manner  gave 
an  additional  significance  to  his  words. 

"  The  fact  is,"  he  continued,  looking  at  me,  "  I  have, 
for  the  first  time  in  my  professional  life,  made  a  terrible  mis- 
take." 

I  could  only  repeat  the  words,  "  A  terrible  mistake  !  " 

"  It  is  not  often  that  lawyers  do  that,"  he  said.  "  They 
are  generally  very  cautious.  I  fear  that  in  this  particular 
business  I  have  been  neither.  A  lawyer,"  he  continued, 
"  above  all  men,  should  well  consider  every  step  he  takes 
In  this  one  case  I  did  not." 

He  was  talking  to  a  girl  whose  soul  vibrated  to  the  music 
of  the  nightingales  and  the  sound  of  her  lover's  voice  ;  and 
even  those  words,  portentous  as  they  were,  did  not  startle 
her. 

"  Yet,"  he  continued,  "  I  cannot  see  how  I  could  have 
helped  it,  or  how  I  am  to  balme,  though  blame  must  lie  some- 
where." 

"  It  does  not  lie  with  you,  I  feel  sure,"  I  said,  with  a 
faint  attempt  at  consolation,  and  as  a  proof  of  my  confidence  in 
his  legal  acuteness. 

"  The  worst  of  it,"  he  continued,  "  is  that  the  mistake  I 
have  made  affects  you." 

"  Then,"  I  said,  "  it  can  be  easily  remedied."  For,  in 
my  ignorance,  I  did  not  think  there  could  be  any  mistake 
made  which  would  seriously  affect  me. 

"  I  am  afraid,"  he  went  on,  disregarding  my  interposition, 
"  it  will  be  a  terrible  blow  to  you.  You  seem  so  happy 
here." 

"  I  am  very  happy  here — indeed  it  would  be  impossible 
for  any  one  to  be  happier,"  I  replied. 

"  You  remember  the  terms  of  Sir  William's  will,  Miss 
Gordon  ?  "  he  continued. 

I  answered  that  I  remembered  them  well. 

"  The  whole  estate  descended  to  his  son  Paul.  The  title 
is  hereditary  ;  the  estate  is  not.  If  Paul  married  and  had 
children,  it  went  to  them.  If  he  died  unmarried,  it  became 
yours." 

"  Yes  ;  and  it  is  mine,  thank  heaven  !  "  I  said. 
"  So  I    thought.      Heaven   knows  I    thought  so,"    he  an? 
swered  ;  "  but,  Miss  Gordon,  it  appears  that  Paul  was  married. 
He  has  left  a  widow  and  an  only  son." 


FAIR  BUT  FALSJZ. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  lawyer's  words  fell  like  poisoned  arrows  on  my  heart. 
Paul  had  left  a  widow  and  an  only  son  !  That  meant  that  I 
was  no  longer  mistress  of  Jesmond  Dene — that  the  splendid 
inheritance  I  had  planned  to  do  so  much  good  with  had 
slipped  from  my  grasp. 

There  was  silence  between  us  for  some  time — a  silence 
fraught  with  unutterable  horror  to  me.  Mr.  Benson  broke  it 
as  last. 

"  I  blame  myself,"  he  said.  "  I  ought  to  have  made 
inquiries,  and  have  been  satisfied  beyond  the  possibility  of 
doubt  that  Paul  Jesmond  had  not  married  ;  I  ought  to  have 
ascertained  that  before  helping  to  place  you  in  possession. 
I  am  afraid  it  is  a  terrible  blow  to  you,"  he  added. 

"  Yes,  it  is,"  I  replied — "  so  great  a  blow  that  I  cannot 
at  present  realize  it.  It  has  stunned  me." 

"  It  stunned  me,"  said  Mr.  Benson.  "  I  was  for  many 
hours  quite  unable  to  comprehend  the  result  of  this  deplora- 
ble blunder.  Now  I  see  plainly  enough  what  I  ought  to  have 
done.  I  should  have  written  to  India  for  further  information 
before  you  were  formally  installed  as  mistress  of  Jesmond 
Dene." 

"  It  would  have  been  better,"  I  said  mechanically.  "  You 
are  quite  sure  that  there  is  no  mistake  now  ?  "  I  added. 

"  No,  everything  is  too  well  authenticated  for  that.  There 
is  no  mistake  this  time.  I — I  cannot  tell  you  how  grieved  I 
am — how  I  blame  myself,  but  there  had  never  been  any  word 
of  Paul's  marriage,  he  had  not  mentioned  it.  and  it  seems  to 
have  been  but  little  known,  even  among  his  friends  in  the 
army.  You  bear  the  blow  well,  Miss  Gordon." 

Nevertheless,  bravely  as  I  bore  this  crushing  reverse  of 
fortune,  it  was  a  terrible  blow  to  me.  For  a  time  it  had 
banished  the  cherished  memory  of  my  lover's  face.  But 
slowly  it  began  to  return,  and  I  took  heart  once  more.  The 
first  thought  that  presented  itself  clearly  to  my  mind  was  this 
— that,  if  he  loved  me,  change  of  fortune  would  not  affect 
him  ;  and  whilst  I  possessed  his  love  nothing  on  earth  could. 


FAIR  BUT  FALSE. 


*9S 


affect  me.  By  degrees  hope  seemed  to  come  back  to  my 
heart,  the  color  to  my  face,  clear  thought  to  my  brain. 
Then  I  realized  that  I  was  no  longer  mistress  of  Jesmond 
Dene,  and  that  I  must  give  way  to  my  cousin's  little  son.  I 
confess,  between  smiles  and  tears,  that  the  very  words  "  My 
cousin's  little  son  "  softened  and  warmed  my  heart  to  the 
child  as  nothing  else  could  have  done,  and  robbed  the  blow 
of  half  its  bitter  sting.  My  cousin's  little  son — the  son  of 
the  bright-faced  handsome  lad  who  had  been  so  kind  to  me 
in  my  girlhood,  who  had  kissed  me,  and  had  promised  to 
marry  me  when  he  had  seen  the  world  !  He  had  married 
some  one  else,  and  I  must  give  way  to  his  child,  the  rightful 
heir  to  Jesmond  Dene.  Still  my  heart  warmed  to  him,  for 
my  dead  cousin's  sake. 

"  As  you  will  remember,"  continued  Mr.  Benson,  "  there 
was  no  cordiality  between  father  and  son.  Sir  William  liked 
to  save  money  ;  Paul  enjoyed  spending  it.  The  father's 
miserly  ways  made  home  hateful  to  the  son.  They  quarreled 
fiercely  before  they  parted,  and  I  should  imagine,  from  the 
tone  of  the  letters  that  passed  between  them,  that  they  were 
never  on  friendly  terms  again.  Sir  William  refused  him  an 
allowance  for  some  time,  so  deeply  rooted  was  his  anger.  He 
afterward  relented  ;  but  by  that  time  the  young  fellow's 
heart  was  hardened.  I  know  that  Sir  William  wrote  to  him 
several  times  on  the  subject  of  marriage,  urging  him  to  take 
great  care  not  to  be  so  foolish  as  to  fall  in  love — that  he  must 
not  marry  until  he  returned  to  England,  and  then  he  was  to 
marry  a  wealthy  woman.  Money  was  to  be  his  first  con- 
sideration. Sir  William  told  me  all  about  these  letters.  He 
added  also  that  he  had  never  received  an  answer  to  them. 
That  accounts,"  remarked  Mr.  Benson,  "  for  the  young 
fellow's  silence  about  his  marriage.  There  is  no  doubt  he 
believed  implicitly  that,  if  his  father  knew  of  it,  he  would 
disinherit  him  and  leave  him  penniless,  for  he  married  much 
beneath  him,  his  wife  having  no  dowry  except  a  beautiful 
face." 

"  Who  was  she  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Her  name  was  Gabrielle  Fairfax,"  he  replied,  "  and  she 
was  livirg  in  the  family  of  Major  Esmond  as  governess  to 
his  children — a  very  unusual  thing  in  India  ;  but  the  Esmond 
children  were  strong  and  healthy,  and  their  parents  did  not 
care  to  part  with  them.  She  was  a  most  beautiful  and  a 


296  FAIR  BUT  FALSE. 

very  good  girl,  Colonel  Brownlow  tells  me,  clever  and  ac- 
complished, belonging  to  a  respectable  English  family.  She 
had,  of  course,  no  fortune,  and  no  prospect  of  ever  possessing 
any.  Paul  Jesmond  fell  in  love  with  and  married  her.  No 
one  knew  of  the  marriage,  except  Major  Esmond  and  his 
wife.  Paul  dared  not  let  it  be  known  lest  his  father  should 
hear  of  it.  He  never  spoke  of  it  even  to  his  most  intimate 
friends  ;  but  he  told  Major  Esmond  that  when  he  returned  to 
England  he  should  take  his  wife  straight  to  Jesmond  Dene, 
and  trust  to  her  lovely  face  to  win  him  his  father's  forgive- 
ness. Miss  Gordon,  I  can  hear  in  fancy  his  cheery  young 
voice  saying,  '  When  my  father  sees  her,  he  will  relent.'  He 
was  always  sanguine,  poor  Paul  !  " 

I  knew  that — my  bright-faced  handsome  cousin  !  Mr. 
Benson  went  on — 

"  He  rented  a  pretty  little  house  on  the  Neilgherry  Hills 
for  his  wife,  and  they  lived  very  happily  for  two  years,  no  one 
guessing  his  secret.  A  son  was  born  there  ;  and  Paul  Jes- 
mond, who  knew  the  importance  of  that  son's  birth,  took  the 
precaution  of  having  it  properly  registered,  and  of  keeping  a 
copy  of  the  registration.  The  child  was  christened  by  the 
resident  chaplain,  who,  in  his  turn,  faithfully  kept  the  pro- 
mise of  secrecy  that  he  had  given.  Paul  took  yet  another 
precaution,  which,  for  one  so  habitually  careless  as  himself, 
seems  to  be  somewhat  remarkable.  He  gathered  together 
the  needful  papers — his  certificate  of  marriage  and  the  cer- 
tificate of  his  son's  birth — and  placed  them  together,  with  a 
long  letter  to  his  father,  telling  him  all  the  story  of  his 
marriage,  and  begging,  if  anything  happened  to  him,  that  he 
would  be  kind  to  his  wife  and  child. 

"  '  Let  little  Guy  succeed  me,'  he  wrote.  '  Do  not  visit 
the  offenses  of  the  father  on  the  son.  However  faulty  I  may- 
have  been,  do  not  disinherit  my  boy.  My  marriage  may  dis- 
please you,  but  you  will  forgive  me  when  you  see  my  wife's 
face.  And  she  is  as  good  as  she  is  beautiful.  I  love  her 
with  all  my  heart.  There  comes  to  me,  father,  at  times  a 
presentiment  that  I  shall  die  young.  If  I  do,  be  kind  to  my 
wife  and  child.  Let  my  wife  have  the  honor  that  falls  to  the 
widowed  ladies  of  Jesmond  Dene,  and  let  my  son  succeed  to 
the  estate.  I  am  your  only  son  ;  you  will  not  refuse  my 
prayer.  I  am  writing  this,  so  that,  should  anything  happen 


FAIR  BUT  FALSE. 


297 


to  me,  my  wife  may  bring  it  in  her  hands  to  you,  and  you,  in 
your  turn,  will  do  justice  to  her.' 

"So  runs  the  letter,  Miss  Gordon." 

By  that  time  my  eyes  were  full  of  tears,  and  I  had  begun 
to  forget  my  own  troubles,  and  to  think  only  of  the  handsome 
bright-eyed  lad  who  had  loved  me  when  I  was  a  child,  and 
of  his  little  son. 

"  It  appears,"  continued  Mr.  Benson,  "  that  Paul  fell  ill 
very  suddenly  with  one  of  those  terribly  malignant  fevers  so 
common  in  the  East.  He  had  been  appointed  to  some  slight 
military  command  where  he  would  be  detained  three  months. 
The  name  of  the  place  to  which  he  was  sent,  and  where  he 
died,  was  Faizabad.  As  a  matter  of  course,  he  bade  farewell 
to  his  wife,  she  knowing  that  the  separation  would  be  for 
three  months  ;  and  during  that  time,  not  having  expected  to 
hear  from  him,  she  was  not  anxious  about  him.  His  com- 
rade on  the  fatal  expedition  was  Captain  Archie  Hartigan, 
who  was  by  his  side  when  he  died.  It  seems  that  on  the  day 
before  his  death,  while  some  little  consciousness  still  re- 
mained, Paul  placed  a  small  package  in  Captain's  Hartigan's 
hands,  with  these  words,  "  Find  out  my  wife,  and  give  her 
this  to  take  to  my  father.'  Captain  Hartigan  intended  to 
fulfill  the  commission  at  the  earliest  moment ;  but,  even 
before  his  friend  was  laid  to  rest,  he  himself  was  stricken 
down  with  the  same  fever,  and  lay  for  some  time  hovering 
between  life  and  death.  Other  officers  were  sent  to  Faizabad, 
and  for  many  weeks  the  package  left  by  Captain  Jesmond 
was  not  delivered.  The  first  thing  that  Captain  Hartigan  did, 
when  restored  to  health,  was  to  go  to  Colonel  Brownlow  and 
give  him  Paul's  message — '  Find  out  my  wife,  and  give  her 
this  to  take  home  to  my  father.'  The  colonel  declared  that 
Captain  Jesmond  had  never  married.  He  made  the  fullest 
possible  inquiries,  but  could  obtain  no  confirmation  of  any 
such  marriage.  None  of  Paul's  brother-officers  knew  any- 
thing of  it.  Major  Esmond  did  not  belong  to  the  same 
regiment ;  and  unfortunately  just  at  that  time  he  was  away  on 
military  business,  so  that  there  was  no  one  to  throw  any 
light  upon  the  matter.  But,  when  Major  Esmond  returned, 
and  heard  what  had  happened,  he  went  at  once  to  Colonel 
Brownlow,  and  told  him  the  whole  story.  The  colonel  was 
not  very  well  pleased,  and  blamed  Major  Esmond  for  having 
connived  at  the  secret  marriage  of  a  young  officer.  Then 


2g8  FAIR  BUT  FALSE. 

Captain  Hartigan  was  sent  to  find  the  young  wife,  so  soon 
widowed,  and  to  communicate  to  her  the  intelligence  of  her 
husband's  death.  He  found  her  with  her  infant  son.  She 
was  beautiful  as  a  dream,  and  good  as  she  was  fair.  Her 
distress  was  terrible  when  she  learnt  the  sad  news,  for  it 
appears  that  she  had  dearly  loved  her  husband.  At  first  she 
refused  to  believe  that  he  was  dead  ;  and  then  she  declined 
to  go  home  to  England.  She  wanted  to  be  left  alone  to  die 
in  peace  where  he  had  left  her.  It  was  represented  to  her 
how  greatly  such  a  course  would  injure  the  prospects  of  the 
boy,  who,  on  his  grandfather's  death,  would  in  all  proba- 
bility become  Sir  Guy  Jesmond  and  master  of  Jesmond 
Dene.  For  the  child's  sake  she  consented  to  do  what  she 
would  never  have  done  for  her  own — return  to  England,  and 
see  her  husband's  father.  She  would  not  however  accept 
any  escort,  though  Colonel  Brownlow  would  have  placed  her 
under  the  protection  of  an  officer  and  his  wife  who  were 
shortly  returning  to  England,  Mrs.  Esmond  implored  her 
to  take  a  maid ;  but  she  would  not ;  she  would  travel  alone, 
her  only  companion  being  her  fatherless  boy.  Colonel  Brown- 
low  gave  her  the  precious  package,  and  she  sailed  from  Cal- 
cutta in  the  Caspian  Queen,  and  reached  London  safely." 

"  Reached  London  !"  I  exclaimed.  "  Then  she  is  near — 
quite  near?" 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  lawyer  gravely.  . "  The  news  of  Sir 
William's  death  was  not  known  in  the  regiment  when  she 
left,  and  Colonel  Brownlow,  understanding  that  I  was  the 
family  solicitor,  advised  her  to  come  straight  to  me.  She  did 
not  do  so,  but  allowed  a  fortnight  to  elapse,  and  then  she 
came." 

"  Then  you  have  seen  her  ?  "  I  cried. 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  "I  have  seen  her;  "  and  the  old 
lawyer  was  strangely  silent  after  that.  . 

"  What  about  her  ?  "  I  asked  eagerly.  "  What  do  you 
think  of  her?" 

"  She  is  simply  the  most  beautiful  woman  I  have  ever  be- 
held," he  replied. 

"  And  good  as  beautiful  ? "  I  asked  again. 

"  I  could  not  judge ;  she  was  not  with  me  very  long — 
though  long  enough  to  convince  me  that  her  claims  are  valid 
and  legal.  She  is  Lady  Jesmond,  and  her  son  is  Sir  Guy." 


FAIR  BUT  FALSE. 


299 


"  Heaven  bless  my  cousin's  little  son,  Sir  Guy  ? "  I  man- 
aged to  say,  although  my  eyes  were  blinded  with  tears. 

"  I  am  glad,  I  am  thankful  that  you  bear  it  so  well,"  said 
Mr.  Benson.  "  I  have  never  felt  so  anxious  or  so  unhappy 
in  my  life  as  I  have  felt  over  this  unfortunate  business.  But 
who  would  have  thought  that  Paul  would  marry  entirely  for 
beauty,  and  then  hide  his  wife  in  the  Neilgherry  Hills  ?  I 
do  not  know  what  would  have  been  the  result  of  this  match 
if  Sir  William  had  lived." 

"You  say  Paul  married  her  entirely  for  her  beauty;  surely 
he  must  have  loved  her  ?  " 

"  Yes,  there  is  no  doubt  he  did,"  he  replied.  Still  there 
was  a  significant  hesitation  in  his  manner. 

"  You  do  not  like  her  ? "  I  said,  divining,  as  I  believed, 
his  true  thoughts.  I  put  the  question  so  suddenly  that  he 
had  not  time  to  think  before  he  answered. 

"  No — indeed  I  do  not,"  he  replied,  with  an  air  of  great 
relief.  "  But  she  will  be  here  to-morrow,  Miss  Gordon.  She 
would  not  come  with  me,  but  it  was  arranged  that  she  should 
follow  me." 


CHAPTER  VII. 

UNTIL  long  after  midnight  aunt  Annette,  Mr.  Benson, 
and  I  sat  discussing  this — to  me — momentous  matter.  One 
thing  was  certain — there  was  no  deception,  no  flaw  in  the 
evidence,  no  informality  in  the  marriage ;  everything  was 
perfectly  straightforward  and  strictly  legal.  Aunt  Annette 
wanted  me  to  dispute  the  claim — possession  was  nine  points 
of  the  law,  she  contended.  But  Mr.  Benson  declared  that  it 
would  be  absolutely  useless — nay,  he  added  gravely  that  it 
would  be  wrong  to  contest  a  claim  so  fully  established.  There 
was  not  the  least  doubt  about  any  of  the  facts,  and  the  case 
was  as  strong  as  it  well  could  be.  Indeed  Mr.  Benson,  who 
was  an  upright  man  as  well  as  a  clever  lawyer,pointed  out  that, 
even  if  there  should  be  a  slight  flaw  in  any  of  the  evidence, 
that  would  not  alter  the  fact  that  Paul's  son  was  entitled  to 
succeed  him.  Womanlike,  I  was  most  curious  to  know  why 
he  did  not  like  Lady  Jesmond  ;  but  to  this  question  he  could 


300 


FAIR  BUT  FALSE. 


give  me  no  satisfactory  answer.     She  was  beautiful,  graceful, 
well-bred. 

"  She  gives  me  the  idea  of  one  who  has  been  brought  up 
in  France,"  he  said.  "  And,  entre  nous,  Miss  Gordon,  I  do 
not  like  French  training." 

Then  came  the  question,  what  was  to  be  done  with  me  ? 
What  course  ought  I  to  pursue  with  regard  to  my  future  ? 
Aunt  Annette,  who  was  vexed  'and  angry  at  this  untoward 
appearance  of  a  claimant  for  my  throne,  declared  that  I 
should  go  back  with  her  to  the  little  house  we  had  left  but  a 
few  months  before.  But  that  had  been  let  just  as  it  stood, 
therefore  we  could  not  return  to  it  for  a  time  at  least.  Mr. 
Benson  counseled  us  to  wait. 

"Wait  until  you  see  her,  Miss  Gordon,  until  you  know 
what  she  intends  to  do.  You  have  many  undertakings  on 
hand  ;  she  may  desire  to  go  on  with  some  of  them,  and  ask 
your  co-operation.  Be  patient  and  wait." 

When  I  retired  to  rest  that  night,  sleep  came  not  to  my 
weary  eyes,  for  my  mind  was  full  of  the  romance  of  this 
beautiful  young  widow  who  was  coming  to  Jesmond  Dene  to 
reign  in  my  stead.  As  a  matter  of  course,  I  felt  most  bitterly 
and  keenly  the  loss  of  this  my  princely  inheritance.  It  was 
as  much  lost  to  me  on  that  first  evening  when  I  heard  the 
news  as  afterward  when  others  reigned  there  supreme. 
Crushing  and  keen  was  the  ever-recurring  thought  that  I  was 
no  longer  "  queen  and  mother  "  of  my  people  ;  they  were  no 
longer  my  loyal  and  affectionate  subjects.  I  thought  of  the 
half-built  almshouses,  of  the  hospital  and  schools,  of  the  thou- 
sand and  one  plans  I  had  conceived  for  the  benefit  of  those 
living  around  me,  and  my  heart  ached  at  the  thought  that  my 
dreams  would  not  be  realized.  Still,  if  the  goodness  of  her 
heart  were  in  accord  with  her  personal  charms,  the  probabili- 
ties were  that  Lady  Jesmond  would  be  pleased  with  the  work 
I  had  begun,  and  carry  it  on.  What  a  dream  of  wealth  and 
luxury,  benevolence  and  happiness  it  had  been  to  me  !  And 
now  I  must  go  back  to  the  dreary  seclusion  that  had  been 
mine  before. 

But  no  !  Now  that  love  had  dawned  in  my  soul,  the 
dreariness  of  my  past  life  could  never  recur.  I  knew  by 
instinct  that  Lady  Saxon  would  love  me  none  the  less  for  my 
loss  of  fortune — that  she  would  be  superior  to  such  sordid 
meanness  as  to  allow  her  feelings  toward  me  to  change  be- 


FAIR  BUT  FALSE. 


301 


cause  I  was  no  longer  mistress  of  Jesmond  Dene.  And  I 
was  equally  certain  that  Lord  Saxon,  than  whom  a  more  gen- 
erous-hearted man  never  lived,  would  love  me  as  hitherto. 
My  heart  found  perfect  rest  in  these  pleasant  thoughts. 

Early  on  the  following  morning  my  aunt  Annette  fell  ill, 
and  Lady  Saxon  came  over  to  see  me.  I  looked  full  and 
straight  into  my  old  friend's  kindly  face  while  I  told  my 
story.  If  I  had  detected  the  slightest  coldness  toward  me,  the 
slightest  shade  of  disappointment,  I  should  have  shrunk  from 
her.  But  thee  was  nothing  but  the  most  loving  sympathy  and 
motherly  affection  depicted  on  her  countenance,  She  listened 
for  some  time  in  silent  amazement ;  and  then  she  spoke  : 

"Felicia,"  she  said,  "you  shall  share  my  home  and  my 
purse  ;  you  shall  be  my  dear  adopted  daughter,  and  I  will 
make  you  so  happy  that  you  shall  not  miss  Jesmond  Dene.  I 
love  you  the  better  now  that  I  see  how  bravely  and  how  well 
you  can  bear  such  a  disastrous  stroke  of  ill-fortune.  I  wonder 
what  this  Lady  Jesmond  is  like." 

"  Beautiful  as  a  dream,  I  am  told,"  I  answered. 

"  A  worshiper  of  beauty,  a  dreamer  of  dreams."  The 
words  returned  to  me  with  vivid  force.  They  were  Lady 
Saxon's  description  of  her  son. 

How  kind  and  good  she  was  to  me  at  this  trying  period 
of  my  life  !  I  ought  even  to  have  been  grateful  for  the  mis- 
fortune which  brought  to  me  such  disinterested  love.  She 
would  have  been  pleased  and  proud  to  carry  me  off  there  and 
then,  but  I  was  destined  to  remain  for  many  a  long  day  at 
Jesmond  Dene.  I  knew  little  of  the  world,  my  experience 
being  limited  to  the  few  acquaintances  of  my  aunt  and  Lady 
Saxon's  ;  but  I  knew  enough  to  be  sure  that  it  was  a  marvel- 
ous thing  to  find  one  perfectly  disinterested  friend. 

"  I  think,"  said  Mr.  Benson,  "  that  it  would  be  as  well  to 
send  a  carriage  to  Honton  station  to  meet  Lady  Jesmond.  I 
do  not  know  the  hour  at  which  she  will  arrive,  but  she  said 
she  should  come  to-day." 

"  She  will  doubtless  feel  nervous,"  I  remarked,  "  and 
slightly  uncomfortable.  It  is  not  a  very  pleasant  position  for 
her." 

Mr.  Benson  looked  at  me  with  his  eyes  opened  to  their 
widest  extent. 

"  I  saw  no  sign  of  nervousness  in  her,"  he  observed. 
"  She  seemed  perfectly  self-possessed  and  mistress  of  the 
situation." 


302 


FAIR  BUT  FALSE. 


The  words  jarred  upon  me. 

'•  You  must  feel  the  position  a  painful  one,"  he  added 
kindly. 

"  But  she  is  said  to  be  as  good  as  she  is  beautiful,"  I  cried  ; 
"  and  good  women  are  sensitive." 

"  Not  all,"  he  rejoined.  "  Many  women  have  the  most 
matter-of-fact  natures ;  they  are  sensitive  neither  for  them- 
selves nor  others  ;  yet  they  are  good  women." 

"  I  think  sensitiveness  a  noble  virtue,"  I  remarked. 

"  It  is  hardly  that,"  he  replied.  "  It  is  rather  a  quality 
that  directs  many  others.  Lady  Jesmond  is  not  sensitive,  I 
am  sure,"  Mr.  Benson  went  on.  "  She  did  not  seem  to  think 
how  this  change  would  affect  any  one  but  herself.  You  will 
send  the  carriage  for  her,  by-the-bye  ?  " 

I  did  send  it,  with  orders  that  it  was  to  remain  at  the 
railway  station  and  await  all  the  London  trains.  I  sent  also 
for  the  doctor  from  Honton  to  see  my  aunt  Annette.  On  his 
arrival  he  spoke  rather  gravely  of  her  condition.  I  told  him 
that  she  desired  to  go  away  from  Jesmond  Dene  at  once  ; 
but  he  said  she  would  imperil  her  life  if  she  were  so  rash.  So 
perforce,  whether  we  liked  it  or  not,  we  must  remain  as  guests 
within  the  walls  of  what  had  for  a  brief  period  been  our  own 
home. 

"  Forgive  me,  Miss  Gordon,"  the  doctor  said,  before  leav- 
ing ;  "  but  as  I  came  along  I  heard  a  rumor  which  I  venture 
most  earnestly  to  hope  is  not  true." 

I  knew  at  once  that  the  story  in  some  way  or  other  had 
leaked  out. 

"  You  mean,"  I  said  slowly,  "  that  we  have  had  news  from 
India,  and  that  my  cousin  Paul  has  left  both  a  widow  and  a 
son  ?  " 

"  That  is  what  I  heard.  Is  it  true,  Miss  Gordon  ?  "  asked 
Dr.  Bland. 

"  It  is  perfectly  true,"  I  replied.  "  We  expect  the  young 
widow,  Lady  Jesmond,  and  her  son  here  to-day." 

"  True  ?  I  did  not  believe  it.  There  will  be  a  revolution 
amongst  the  people,  for  you  are  greatly  beloved  here,  Miss 
Gordon." 

"  Right  is  right,"  I  answered ;  "  and  my  cousin's  little 
son  is  the  heir  to  Jesmond  Dene." 

He  said  no  more,  but  when  he  was  gone  I  sought  Mr. 
Benson  and  told  him  what  had  occurred,  and  that  I  thought 


FAIR  BUT  FALSE. 

it  would  be  preferable  to  call  all  the  servants  together  and 
tell  them  what  had  happened  rather  than  that  they  should  be 
left  to  hear  it  piecemeal  from  strangers.  He  quite  agreed 
with  me  ;  and  the  whole  household  was  gathered  together  in 
the  servants'  hall,  where  Mr.  Benson  told  them  the  story  of 
Paul's  marriage  and  death,  and  announced  that  the  widowed 
Lady  Jesmond,  with  her  little  son  Sir  Guy,  was  coming  that 
day  to  take  possession.  Mr.  Benson  told  me,  with  tears  in 
h-s  eyes,  that  when  he  had  finished  his  narration  there  was 
but  one  cry  among  the  servants,  and  that  was  for  Miss  Gor- 
don. They  all  loved  Miss  Gordon  ;  they  did  not  want  to 
lose  Miss  Gordon. 

"  They  are  devotedly  attached  to  you,"  he  said  ;  and  my 
heart  was  comforted  by  the  knowledge  that  I  retained  the 
affection  of  those  about  me. 

Noon  came,  but  still  there  was  no  sound  of  carriage- 
wheels.  Then  followed  a  long  sultry  afternoon,  during  which 
Mr.  Benson,  who  was  miserably  anxious  and  nervous,  dropped 
off  to  sleep. 

That  afternoon  many  callers  came,  for  the  news  had  spread 
throughout  the  district.  I  ought  to  have  been,  and  I  was, 
consoled  by  the  many  expressions  of  kindness  and  sympathy. 
No  one  seemed  to  think  it  strange  that  Paul  had  married,  or 
that  his  widow  should  come  home  to  claim  his  heritage.  The 
general  impression  seemed  to  be  that  it  was  a  thousand  pities 
Sir  William  and  his  son  had  not  been  on  better  terms,  when 
Captain  Jesmond  would  have  had  no  reason  to  conceal  his 
marriage,  and  the  unfortunate  mistake  would  never  have  been 
made. 

The  long  afternoon  had  passed,  my  visitors  had  all  de- 
parted, and  Mr.  Benson  had  awaked  from  his  slumbers ;  still 
there  was  no  sound  of  carriage-wheels  to  herald  the  approach 
of  Lady  Jesmond. 

"  I  cannot  stand  much  more  of  this  kind  of  thing,"  said 
the  lawyer.  "  I  do  not  think  I  ever  knew  what  suspense 
meant  before." 

"  I  have  ordered  dinner  for  seven,"  I  said.  And  just  as 
I  uttered  the  words  we  heard  the  sound,  so  long  and  anxi- 
ously awaited,  of  carriage-wheels.  "  They  are  here  !  "  I  cried. 

But  no  warning  came  to  me  of  what  was  to  follow  in  the 
wake  of  the  home-coming  of  Lady  Jesmond. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

"  SHALL  you  go  to  meet  Lady  Jesmond  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  I  replied ;  "  she  shall  have  a  kindly  welcoir/e 
home." 

I  went  out  into  the  entrance-hall,  and  there  I  saw  three 
figures.  One  was  that  of  a  tiny  child,  crying  with  fatigue  ; 
the  second  was  a  tall  elderly  woman  dressed  in  deep  mourn- 
ing, who  seemed  to  be  a  nurse  ;  the  third,  a  tall  graceful  lady 
dressed  in  deep  black  crape.  This  was  the  young  widow, 
Lady  Jesmond.  I  went  to  her  with  outstretched  hands — for 
was  she  not  Paul's  widow  ? — but  she  did  not  or  would  not  see 
them ;  for  she  merely  gave  me  a  cool  little  nod,  and  said — 

"  Are  you  Felicia  Gordon  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  I  answered. 

"  Mr.  Benson  told  me  about  you,"  she  said.  "  Is  he  here  ? 
I  am  Lady  Jesmond." 

"  Mr.  Benson  is  here,"  I  replied,  "  and  has  been  anxiously 
expecting  you." 

"  I  hope,"  she  said,  "  that  we  are  in  time  for  dinner ;  I 
am  very  hungry.  It  has  been  a  tiresome  journey." 

I  had  had  some  faint  idea  of  falling  on  her  neck  and  bid- 
ding her  welcome  to  the  home  that  I  was  about  to  relinquish 
to  her — some  faint  idea  of  telling  her  how  I  bade  her  welcome 
for  Paul's  sake  ;  but  the  manner  in  which  she  met  my  advan- 
ces checked  my  ardor.  It  was  evident  the  lady  felt  no  emotion 
on  reaching  the  home  of  her  husband's  boyhood.  She  was 
hungry  ! 

"  Dinner  is  at  seven,"  I  answered ;  and  she  must  have 
noticed  the  change  in  my  voice,  for  she  looked  at  me. 

"  Seven  !  "  she  repeated.    "  Why,  it  is  only  just  six  now  !  " 

Then  I  turned  from  her,  and  Heaven  knows,  although  he 
had  deprived  me  of  my  inheritance,  tears  of  honest  affection 
filled  my  eyes  when  I  saw  Paul's  little  son.  I  should  have 
known  the  child  was  Paul's,  no  matter  where  I  had  seen  him, 
his  face  was  so  like  his  father's.  He  had  the  same  dark 
laughing  eyes,  with  a  golden  light  in  their  depths,  the  same 
brows,  the  same  dark  curls. 


FAIR  BUT  FALSE.  305 

"  Why,"  I  cried,  "  this  child  is  the  living  image  of  dear 
Paul !  "  ' 

Lady  Jesmond  turned  to  me  quickly,  and  there  was  a 
strange  inflection  in  her  voice. 

"  Did  you  know  Paul  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  knew  him  well  when  he  was  a  boy,"  I  answered.  "  I 
knew  him  here  at  Jesmond  Dene.  I  was  his  cousin." 

"  Yes,  I  know  that — Mr.  Benson  told  me  ;  but  I  was  not 
aware  that  you  knew  him,"  she  remarked.  Then  her  voice 
softened  a  little  as  she  said,  "  I  shall  like  to  talk  to  you  about 
him." 

When  she  uttered  these  words,  the  bright  handsome  face 
of  my  dead  cousin  rose  before  me,  and  seemed  to  ask  plead- 
ingly for  kindness  to  his  wife.  She  should  receive  it  from 
me  for  the  sake  of  olden  days. 

I  took  the  bonny  little  fellow  into  my  arms  and  caressed 
him  fondly.  He  ceased  crying,  and  looked  with  piteous  eyes 
into  my  face. 

"  Mamma,"  he  cried,  "  mamma  !  " 

"  I  am  here,  Guy,"  replied  Lady  Jesmond  quickly.  "  Be 
a  good  boy,  dear." 

"  He  is  tired,"  I  said,  "  Shall  I  take  him  to  the  nursery 
we  have  prepared  for  him  ?  It  is  the  same  his  father  had." 

I  saw  her  make  a  quick  gesture  to  the  woman  who  stood 
near.  She  came  forward  instantly. 

"  I  am  the  child's  nurse,"  she  said,  and  prepared  to  take 
him  from  me  ;  but  the  little  fellow  resisted  all  her  efforts  and 
clasped  his  baby  arms  tightly  round  my  neck. 

"Never  mind,  nurse,"  interposed  Lady  Jesmond.  "If 
Miss  Gordon  likes  to  trouble  herself  with  a  tiresome  child, 
let  her  ;  I  am  sure  it  is  very  kind  of  her.  Guy  must  be  good," 
she  added,  turning  to  the  little  fellow,  who  still  clung  eagerly 
to  me. 

The  sound  of  her  voice,  sweet  and  musical  as  it  was,  did 
not  seem  to  appease  the  child.  Again  in  a  piteous  voice  he 
cried — 

"  Mamma  !  " 

"  I  am  here,"  Lady  Jesmond  repeated.  "  You  had  better 
take  him,  nurse  ;  he  seems  inclined  to  be  cross.  I  have  but 
little  patience  with  crying  children,"  she  continued.  Then, 
turning  to  me,  she  asked,  "  Have  you  ?  " 

"  Unfortunately  for  me,  I  have  been  but  little  with  chil- 


306  FAIR  BUT  FALSE. 

dren,"  I  said ;    "  but   I   do   not  think   my  patience   would 
fail." 

"  Shall  I  take  Sir  Guy  now,  and  give  him  his  bath,  my 
lady  ?  "  asked  the  nurse.  "  Then  I  can  come  and  help  your 
ladyship  to  dress." 

"  See  that  you  have  all  you  want  yourself,  nurse.  Ring 
for  wine  or  tea,  and  see  that  you  have  every  comfort,"  said 
Lady  Jesmond,  much  to  my  astonishment. 

I  thought  that  speech  showed  decided  consideration  for 
others,  and  it  pleased  me. 

The  child  continued  to  cry  as  he  was  carried  off  to  the 
nursery,  and  the  sound  was  strange  in  that  old  house,  where 
children  had  not  lived  for  so  many  years. 

"  He  is  very  cross  to-night,"  said  Lady  Jesmond.  "  I 
wish  I  could  break  him  of  that  absurd  habit  he  has  of  always 
crying  for  me."  , 

"  It  is  natural  enough,"  I  answered.  "  Children  generally 
cry  for  their  mothers." 

"  Things  that  are  most  natural  are  not  always  most  pleas- 
ant," said  Lady  Jesmond,  decidedly. 

And  then  I  wondered  whether  she  had  any  heart,  whether 
she  felt  any  emotion  on  coming  to  this  her  husband's  home — 
the  place  where  his  boyish  days  had  been  spent. 

"It  must  have  been  a  trial,"  I  said  to  her,  "  for  you  to 
come  home  without  Paul." 

"  Yes,  a  great  trial,"  she  replied  ;  but  there  was  no  note 
of  regret  or  pain  in  the  calm  sweet  voice.  "  I  .think,  Miss 
Gordon,  I  will  go  to  my  room  now.  I  have  brought  no  maid 
with  me  ;  perhaps  I  can  have  a  little  assistance  from  yours." 

"  With  pleasure,'''  I  replied. 

During  all  this  time  she  had  stood  with  her  traveling 
cloak,  which  was  slightly  edged  with  fur,  even  though  it  was 
summer,  drawn  tightly  around  her,  and  her  face  closely  veiled. 

"  I  am  afraid,"  I  said,  "  that  you  feel  cold." 

"  Cold  ! "  she  repeated,  in  a  tone  of  wonder. 

"  Most  people  suffer  much  from  cold  when  they  first 
come  from  India,"  I  remarked. 

"  Yes  ;  I  suffered  greatly  the  first  few  days  after  my  arri- 
val in  England.  I  did  not  attempt  to  leave  the  house  for  a 
fortnight,  but  postponed  my  visit  to  Mr.  Benson  until  I  felt 
a  little  seasoned.  Now  I  will  go  to  my  room." 

I  did  not  ask  her  where  she  had  been  staying,  or  with 


FAIR  BUT  FALSE.  307 

whom.  She  was  not  the  kind  of  person  with  whom  I  felt  I 
could  take  such  a  liberty,  however  kind  the  intention  might 
be. 

My  maid  was  summoned,  and  showed  her  ladyship  to  her 
room.  I  was  left  with  conflicting  sensations,  and  I  seemed 
quite  unable  to  form  any  idea  of  the  character  of  my  newly- 
found  cousin.  If  any  one  had  asked  me  whether  I  liked  her, 
I  could  not  have  answered  the  question. 

I  hastened  to  give  aunt  Annette,  who  was  anxiously  await- 
ing me,  an  account  of  the  interview.  I  could  not  tell  her 
what  I  thought  of  Lady  Jesmond,  for  I .  had  no  definitely- 
formed  opinion  upon  the  point.  I  told  her  all  about  the 
pretty  child  with  his  father's  face,  and  the  elderly  nurse,  and 
of  Lady  Jesmond's  solicitude  for  her. 

"That  speaks  well  for  her,"  said  aunt  Annette.  "Good 
women  are  always  thoughtful  for  their  servants." 

Why  did  those  words  haunt  me — "good  as  she  is  beauti- 
ful ?  " 

I  did  not  go  down-stairs  until  the  dinner-bell  rang ;  when 
I  did  so,  I  found  Mr.  Benson  alone  in  the  dining-room.  Her 
ladyship  had  not  yet  come  down. 

"  Well  ?  "  he  cried,  eagerly,  and  waited  for  me  to  speak. 

The  next  moment  the  rustling  of  silk  and  crape  told  us 
that  Lady  Jesmond  was  near. 

I  cannot  describe  what  I  felt  when  I  beheld  her  lady- 
ship's marvelous  loveliness.  I  have  never  seen  anything  like 
it ;  it  was  perfect,  surpassing  loveliness ;  and  with  it  was 
that  subtle  irresistible  charm  which  men  call  fascination. 
As  I  gazed  at  her,  Lady  Saxon's  words  came  back  to  me — 
"  a  worshiper  of  beauty,  dreamer  of  dreams." 

Tall  and  slender,  her  figure  was  the  very  perfection  of 
grace.  She  had  such  shapely  shoulders  as  are  rarely  seen  ; 
and,  lightly  veiled  by  thin  black  crape,  they  shown  white  as 
alabaster  through  their  gauzy  covering.  Her  hands  were 
delicate  and  white,  and  were  adorned  with  many  valuable 
rings  ;  her  arms  were  as  though  they  had  been  sculptured. 
She  was  a  blonde  of  the  purest  type  ;  even  the  hot  sun  of 
India  had  not  marred  the  faultless  delicacy  of  her  com- 
plexion. Her  eyes  were  blue,  large,  bright,  and  clear,  full  of 
fire,  with  a  gleam  of  passion — eyes  that  could  smile  and  flash, 
that  could  woo  with  all  sweetness  and  "  scorn  with  all  fire  " 
— eyes  that  startled  by  their  unusual  brightness  and  their 


BUT  FALSE. 

depth  of  expression.  The  brows  were  dark  and  straight 
Her  mouth  was  perfect,  with  the  most  alluring  dimples ;  yet 
there  was  in  the  short  upper  lip  something  that  told  of  pride 
and  scorn.  From  her  crown  of  golden  hair  to  her  dainty 
little  feet,  she  was  simply  a  masterpiece  of  Nature's  handi- 
work, without  one  blemish  in  her  fair  loveliness. 

Even  Mr.  Benson's  calm  face  flushed  as  he  hastened  to 
greet  her  with  a  low  bow  and  extended  hand. 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you  looking  so  well,  Lady  Jesmond," 
he  said. 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  world  of  mischief  in  her  eyes. 

"  You  do  not  say  '  Welcome  to  Jesmond  ! '  "  she  remarked, 
playfully.  "  That  is  because  Miss  Gordon  is  here,  and  you 
think  it  would  hardly  be  in  good  taste.  You  are  right,  but 
Miss  Gordon  and  I  are  already  very  good  friends." 

Mr.  Benson  was  quite  at  a  loss  how  to  reply  to  these 
candid  utterances.  It  seemed  that  her  beauty  had  robbed 
him  of  all  power  of  speech.  She  then  turned  to  me  with  an 
amused  smile,  and  I  could  see  that  she  was  gratified  by  my 
look  of  admiration. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

LADY  JESMOND  went  at  once  to  the  head  of  the  table,  taking 
her  place  there  as  though  it  had  been  her  custom  for  years. 
She  smiled  and  nodded  familiarly  at  me  as  she  took  her 
seat,  but  made  no  remark.  She  talked  gayly  and  brilliantly 
during  dinner,  and  did  not  seem  at  all  conscious  of  being  in 
a  strange  position  ;  nor  did  she  appear  to  realize  that  her 
coming  could  have  caused  me  any  pain.  She  spoke  without 
constraint,  and  evidently  had  nothing  to  conceal.  She  looked 
round  the  luxuriously-appointed  dinner-table  with  undisguised 
satisfaction. 

"  It  seems  a  strange  turn  pf  fate  that  has  brought  me 
here,"  she  said,  "  and  made  me  mistress  of  all  this  wealth 
pro  tern" 

"  You  can  scarcely  call  it  ''pro  tern,'  "  said  Mr.  Benson. 
"  Your  son  is  a  long  way  from  his  twenty-first  birthday.  How 
old  is  he  now  ? " 

"  He  will  be  two  years  old  in  September,"  she  replied ; 


FAIR  BUT  FALSE. 


309 


*'  so  that  I  shall  be  queen-regent  for  almost  twenty  years.  I 
shall  heartily  enjoy  my  regency  in  this  delightful  spot." 

I  looked  at  Mr.  Benson,  and  he  at  me.  The  words  struck 
me  as  exceedingly  strange,  for  it  is  not  often  that  one  hears 
a  young  widow  speak  of  the  years  she  must  pass  without  the 
society  of  her  husband  as  enjoyable  ones. 

"  Did  my  cousin  Paul  talk  much  about  Jesmond  Dene  ? " 
I  asked  her. 

"  Not  very  much,"  she  replied. 

"  Did  he  seem  angry  with  Sir  William  ? "  asked  Mr. 
Benson. 

"  No  not  angry — that  is  not  the  word,"  she  answered, 
quickly.  "  He  was  vexed  at  what  he  considered  his  mean- 
ness." 

"  It  was  strange  that  Captain  Jesmond  made  no  allusion 
to  his  marriage,"  remarked  Mr.  Benson. 

Lady  Jesmond  laughed,  giving  her  head  a  dainty  little 
toss  at  the  same  time. 

"  I  do  not  think  so,"  she  answered.  "  I  had  no  fortune, 
and  all  Sir  William's  letters  to  his  son  on  the  subject  of  mat- 
rimony began  and  ended  with  one  piece  of  advice — he  must 
marry  some  one  with  money.  Unluckily  I  had  none." 

"  You  could  not  expect  to  monopolize  all  the  good  gifts 
of  this  world,"  said  the  lawyer  politely. 

She  laughed  ;  and  truly  her  laugh  was  like  a  silvery 
chime. 

"  Paul  said  he  should  never  write  to  Sir  William  about  his 
marriage,  but,  when  he  could  get  leave  of  absence,  he  should 
bring  me  home.  He  had  an  idea  that  I  was  quite  irresistible, 
and  that  Sir  William  had  only  to  see  me  to  love  me,"  said 
Lady  Jesmond,  looking  into  the  lawyer's  face  with  an  expres- 
sion which  fairly  bewildered  that  good  man.  "What  do  you 
think,  Mr.  Benson  ?  Would  Sir  William  have  liked  me  ? " 
she  asked  ingenuously. 

"  I  am  afraid  he  liked  nothing  but  gold,"  the  lawyer  an- 
swered. 

She  laughed  merrily,  disclosing  as  she  did  so  her  even 
pearly  white  teeth. 

"  I  had  no  idea,"  she  remarked  presently,  "  that  Jesmond 
Dene  was  so  extensive,  or  that  Sir  William  was  so  rich.  Paul 
spoke  of  him  as  a  wealthy  man ;  but  I  did  not  think  he  had 
such  unbounded  wealth." 


FAIR  BUT  FALSE. 

"  It  is  a  pleasant  surprise,"  said  Mr.  Benson. 

"  Very  pleasant,"  replied  Lady  Jesmond,  with  a  bright 
little  laugh.  "  When  one  has  suffered  all  one's  life  as  I  have 
for  want  of  money,  such  a  surprise  is,  I  can  assure  you,  fully 
appreciated." 

I  liked  her  better  after  these  outspoken  expressions. 
She  was  evidently  not  in  the  least  ashamed  of  having  been 
poor. 

"  More  than  half  the  world  live  in  misery  from  want  of 
money,"  she  continued.  "  My  parents  were  comparatively 
poor,  and  I  had  to  leave  home  when  I  was  quite  a  girl  to 
earn  my  own  living." 

Mr.  Benson  ventured  to  suggest  that  early  contact  with  the 
world  helped  to  form  and  brace  the  character. 

"  If  it  be  so,  I  have  had  a  long  experience,"  she  said 
laughingly,  "  for  I  began  to  teach  when  I  was  very  young." 

No,  certainly  she  had  no  false  pride.  I  had  never  heard 
any  one  speak  more  openly,  and  I  liked  her  for  it. 

When  dinner  was  over,  we  left  Mr.  Benson  with  his  bottle 
of  favorite  old  port,  and  returned  to  the  drawing-room.  Lady 
Jesmond  appeared  absorbed  in  deep  thought,  and  it  was  only 
when  I  was  about  to  leave  the  room  to  visit  aunt  Annette 
that  she  broke  the  silence. 

"  Stay  with  me,  will  you,  Miss  Gordon  ? "  she  said.  "  I 
feel  lonely  and  strange  to-night." 

"  Ah,  then,"  I  thought  to  myself,  "  she  is  not  devoid  of 
feeling ;  but  her  strong  will  keeps  the  emotional  side  of  her 
nature  hidden  from  the  world  !  " 

"  I  will  stay  with  pleasure,  if  you  desire  it,"  I  answered. 

She  crossed  the  room,  and  came  over  to  where  I  was 
standing.  How  well  I  remember  the  scene  !  The  sun  had 
set  and  the  lovely  landscape  was  shrouded  as  by  a  misty  veil. 
The  French  windows  were  wide  open,  and  the  perfume  borne 
on  the  evening  air  filled  the  room. 

"  What  a  fair  sweet  night !  "  I  remarked. 

She  looked  calmly  from  the  window  ;  there  was  no  admira- 
tion in  her  eyes. 

"  It  is  well  enough,"  she  said ;  and  then,  laying  her  hands 
on  my  shoulders,  and  looking  down — for  she  was  taller  than 
I — into  my  face,  she  added  slowly,  "  Miss  Gordon,  you  have 
reason  to  hate  me  and  my  little  son." 


FAIR  B  UT  FALSE.  3  j  j 

"  I  have  no  reason  to  entertain  any  such  feeling  toward 
you  or  the  child,"  I  replied  half  indignantly. 

"  How  long  have  you  been  here  ? "  she  asked. 

"  I  came  at  the  beginning  of  February,"  I  answered. 

"  Time  enough  for  you  to  grow  deeply  attached  to  Jesmond 
Dene,"  she  remarked,  in  slow  measured  tones. 

"  I  love  it  with  all  my  heart,"  I  confessed. 

"  You  have  grown  accustomed  to  receiving  a  large  income 
— to  doing  what  you  liked  with  vast  sums  of  money  ?  " 

"  I  was  not  long  in  learning  the  lesson,"  I  answered,  with 
a  smile.  "  Mr.  Benson  tells  me  that  you  have  begun  many 
improvements  on  the  estate — that  you  are  building  schools, 
an  hospital  and  almshouses." 

"  It  is  true,  Lady  Jesmond." 

"  He  tells  me  also  that  you  are  already  a  model  lady  of  the 
manor." 

"  He  is  very  kind  to  say  so,"  I  answered,  with  a  glow  of 
pride  at  the  thought  that  my  honest  endeavors  had  been 
appreciated. 

"  Do  you  know,  Miss  Gordon,"  she  said,  drawing  nearer 
to  me,  "  I  am  exceedingly  sorry  ?  Not  sorry  that  my  son 
will  succeed  to  what  you  have  looked  upon  as  your  inheritance  ; 
but  I  am  truly  grieved  because  of  the  great  loss  you  have 
sustained." 

She  spoke  so  kindly  that  my  heart  was  touched. 

"  It  is,"  I  admitted,  "  a  great  loss.  Still  I  have  no  right 
to  complain  of  the  course  events  have  taken.  It  is  right 
that  Paul's  son  should  inherit  what  is  legally  his.  I  do  not 
see  that  any  one  is  to  blame." 

"  You  might  have  been  spared  the  pain  of  all  this  had 
more  care  been  exercised  by  those  whose  duty  it  was  to  make 
the  fullest  inquiries,"  she  said. 

"  Yes  ;  but  I  shall  not  give  up  all  hope  and  pleasure  in 
life  because  I  have  lost  Jesmond  Dene." 

She  looked  at  me  earnestly — so  earnestly  that  I  could 
not  be  offended  when  she  said — 

"  You  are  beautiful  enough  to  marry  well." 

"  I  shall  not  redeem  my  fallen  fortunes  by  marriage,"  I  an- 
swered ;  but  my  heart  throbbed  wildly  and  my  face  flushed 
as  I  spoke.  Marriage  meant  love,  love  meant  Nello ;  and 
again  the  music  of  the  nightingales  seemed  to  ring  in  my 
ears,  and  I  heard  him  whisper—"  Felicia," 


3 1 2  FAIR  BUT  FALSE. 

"  Well,"  said  Lady  Jesmond,  "  we  won't  speculate  as  to 
what  might  have  been,  but  will  confine  ourselves  to  the  stern 
reality  of  what  is.  I  thought  when  I  came  here  that  you 
would  be  my  bitterest  enemy,  that  you  might  possibly  contest 
my  claim." 

"  No  one  could  contest  your  claim  who  had  looked  into 
little  Guy's  face,"  I  replied,  "  for  he  is  the  very  image  of 
Paul." 

"  Still  it  was  in  your  power  to  make  things  very  disagree- 
able," she  continued.  "You  might  have  given  me  much 
trouble  ;  but  you  have  yielded  at  once  so  generously,  so 
gracefully,  so  kindly,  and,  I  may  add,  so  nobly,  that  I  cannot 
help  saying  I  am  deeply  grateful  to  you  for  my  son's  sake. 
I  thank  you,  Miss  Gordon.  And  now  I  want  to  ask  a  favor 
of  you.  Will  you  stay  here  at  Jesmond  Dene  with  me — for  a 
year  at  the  very  least  ?  I  do  not  know  what  your  plans  for 
the  future  may  be  ;  but  this  I  promise  you — you  shall  not 
leave  Jesmond  Dene  without  a  handsome  dowry.  Before 
anything  is  settled,  give  me  the  promise  that  you  will  remain 
with  me  for  one  year — not  as  mistress  of  the  house,  but  as 
my  companion  and  helpmate.  You  say  you  loved  your  cousin 
Paul — promise  me  for  his  sake." 

"  Will  you  tell  me  why  you  require  that  promise,  why 
you  desire  me  to  stay  with  you,  Lady  Jesmond  ?  " 

"  Yes,  as  frankly  as  you  ask.  I  am  a  stranger  here,  and 
shall  feel  lonely.  The  position  is  new  to  me,  and  I  do  not 
quite  know  how  to  fill  it.  I  should  be  glad  to  learn  from 
you,  if  you  will  teach  me.  I  am  not  accustomed  to  the  man- 
agement of  a  large  household,  and  I  am  not  sure  even  whether 
I  understand  what  is  and  what  is  not  etiquette  in  England. 
Will  you  stay  and  teach  me  ?  " 

In  response  to  her  earnest  pleading  eyes.  I  promised, 
not  that  I  would  remain  with  her  for  a  year,  but  that  I  would 
stay  as  long  as  I  could. 

"  So  much  may  happen  in  a  year,"  J  thought  to  myself  : 
I  would  not  promise  for  a  year. 


FAIR  BUT  FALSE.  313 


CHAPTER  X. 

ON  the  following  morning  Lady  Jesmond  asked  me  to 
show  her  over  the  house.  It  was  still  early  when  we  went 
through  all  the  suites  of  luxuriously  furnished  rooms . 

"  I  had  no  idea  the  place  was  so  large,"  she  said  time 
after  time  ;  and  the  more  she  saw  of  it  the  more  serious  she 
grew.  "  What  a  place  to  lose  and  to  win  !  "  she  murmured. 
"  How  could  Paul  leave  such  a  home  ?  "  she  added  wonder- 
ingly. 

"  He  preferred  independence  to  luxury,"  I  answered. 

Then  from  the  lawn  I  pointed  out  to  her  all  the  beauties 
of  Jesmond  Dene — the  restless  sea  in  the  distance ;  the  frag- 
rant pine  forest ;  the  shady  woods  ;  the  clear  deep  river  ;  the 
fertile  meadow-lands — ah,  and  even  the  steep  green  hill  from 
which  I  had  surveyed  the  smiling  landscape,  believing  it  to 
be  mine — all  mine  ! 

"  It  must  be  hard  for  you  to  give  it  up,  Miss  Gordon," 
she  said  again. 

"  It  is  hard  ;  but  I  shall  do  it  with  a  good  grace,"  I  an- 
swered. Then,  thinking  that  she  would  like  to  see  her  boy,  I 
suggested  that  we  should  go  to  the  nursery. 

"What  for?"  she  asked,  opening  wide  her  bright  blue 
eyes. 

"  To  see  little  Guy,"  I  replied. 

"  He  is  all  right,"  she  said  curtly  ;  "  nurse  will  tak§  good 
care  of  him.  The  little  gentleman  lives  in  clover,  I  assure 
you." 

"  What  is  the  nurse's  name  ?  "  I  asked  suddenly,  without 
any  particular  reason. 

For  a  moment  I  wns  startled  by  the  change  that  over- 
spread her  countenance.  She  looked  at  me  with  a  vague  ex* 
pression,  as  though  she  did  not  know ;  then,  recovering  her- 
self quickly,  she  answered — 

"  Mrs.  Rivers." 

"  Has  she  been  with  you  long  ? "  I  asked. 

"  NO,"  she  replied  carelessly ;  "  J  brought  no  nurse  with 


FAIR  BUT  FALSE. 

me  from  India.  I  engaged  Mrs.  Rivers  on  reaching  Eng- 
land." 

"  You  had  good  references  with  her  without  doubt  ? "  I 
said. 

"  She  is  well-known  to  some  very  near  and  dear  friends 
of  mine,"  replied  Lady  Jesmond,  "  and  is  an  excellent  nurse. 
I  can  trust  little  Guy  with  her  at  all  times." 

"  She  struck  me  as  being  rather  a  peculiar  woman,"  I  ven- 
tured to  say. 

"  In  what  way  ? "  asked  Lady  Jesmond  ;  and  her  voice 
seemed  to  grow  sharp  and  harsh. 

"  Rather  above  her  station,  I  fancied — ladylike ;  and  she 
speaks  well,"  I  answered. 

Suddenly  the  roses  she  had  been  gathering  fell  from  her 
hands,  and  I  noticed  that  her  face  grew  white  and  that  a 
slight  tremor  passed  over  her. 

"  You  are  ill,  Lady  Jesmond  !  "  I  cried. 

"  No,"  she  answered  ;  "  I  am  only  cold.  Though  you  call 
it  summer,  there  is  no  warmth  in  the  sun."  Yet  she  did  not 
look  cold,  but  frightened  and  ill. 

Longing  to  see  more  of  Paul's  little  son,  I  went  to  the 
nursery  when  Lady  Jesmond  retired  to  her  room.  It  struck 
rae  at  once  that  the  nurse  was  not  very  pleased  to  see  me. 

"  Good-morning,  Mrs.  Rivers,"  I  said. 

She  looked  at  me  with  an  expression  of  blank  surprise, 
and  after  a  moment's  hesitation  returned  my  salutation.  I 
knew  from  tradition  that  nurses  are  autocrats,  and,  as  I  de- 
sired to  see  much  of  the  child,  I  perceived  that  I  must  con- 
ciliate her. 

"  May  I  see  the  little  one  and  play  with  him  for  a  short 
time  ?  "  I  asked. 

She  looked  at  me  half  hesitatingly,  and  I  felt  sure  that 
she  longed  to  say  "  No,"  but  she  smiled  and  answered  po- 
litely— 

"  Certainly,  if  you  wish  it,  Miss  Gordon." 

And  then  she  brought  the  child,  who  was  laughing  and 
crowing  with  delight,  to  me. 

I  took  him  in  my  arms  and  caressed  him ;  but,  when  he 
saw  that  I  was  a  stranger,  the  merry  laughter  died  away,  and 
the  eyes  so  like  his  father's  looked  with  pathetic  inquiry  into 
mine. 

V  Mamma,"  he  stid  wistfully,  "  mamma  1 " 


FATK  BUT  FALSX.  3 1 5 

In  a  moment  Mrs.  Rivers  was  by  his  side. 

"  Bless  the  dear  child,"  she  said,  "  that  is  his  cay  the 
whole  day  long — nothing  but  '  mamma.'  " 

And  again  the  large  solemn  baby-eyes  looked  into  mine, 
as  he  cried — 

"  Mamma !  " 

"  Your  mamma  is  tired,  little  Guy,"  I  said. 

Mrs.  Rivers  looked  up  anxiously  as  she  caught  my  words. 

"  Is  Lady  Jesmond  tired  ?  She  is  not  very  strong.  People 
who  come  from  India  never  are." 

"  As  she  was  looking  over  the  house  with  me,"  I  answer- 
ed, "  she  shivered  violently,  as  though  she  was  ill." 

"  How  was  that  ?  "  she  asked  nervously. 

"  I  do  not  know — probably  because  she  went  out  on  the 
lawn  without  hat  or  mantle,"  I  answered. 

"  Lady  Jesmond  is  not  strong,"  repeated  the  nurse.  "  If 
you  would  be  so  kind  as  to  remain  here  with  Sir  Guy,  Miss 
Gordon,  I  will  go  and  see  how  her  ladyship  is." 

Quite  willingly  I  remained  with  the  little  fellow,  kissing 
him  to  my  heart's  content.  I  tried  to  make  him  say  "  Feli- 
cia," and,  after  many  futile  attempts,  the  rosy  little  lips  man- 
aged to  murmur  "  Leesy,"  much  to  my  delight.  But  what 
question  did  those  baby-eyes  ask  when  they  looked  into  my 
face  and  he  cried  "  Mamma  "  ? 

After  waiting  some  time,  I  began  to  feel  anxious  about 
Lady  Jesmond. 

"  Come  with  me,  Baby  Guy,"  I  said.  "  We  will  go  and 
see  mamma." 

And  again  into  his  eyes  came  the  look  of  wonder  and 
questioning  that  I  had  noticed  before.  I  remember  how  I 
danced  the  boy  down  the  long  corridors,  and  how  his  merry 
little  laugh  resounded  in  the  otherwise  silent  house. 

Thinking  Lady  Jesmond  might  be  ill,  I  went  quietly  to 
her  door.  Before  I  had  time  to  rap  or  to  speak  I  heard 
voices  ;  and  then  Mrs.  Rivers  said — 

"  You  must  be  careful,  Gabrielle." 

I  knocked  at  once  before  I  could  hear  more,  and,  when 
the  door  was  opened,  and  they  saw  me,  a  strange  confusion 
seemed  to  come  over  them. 

"  Have  you  been  waiting  long,  Miss  Gordon  ? "  asked  Mrs. 
Rivers  sharply. 

"  No  ;  I  have  just  come,"  I  replied.     And  then  it  flashed 


3  X  6  FAIR  B  UT  FALSE. 

across  my  mind  that  she  suspected  me  of  listening.  She  would 
not  suspect  me  of  such  meanness  unless  she  were  capable  of 
it  herself,  I  thought  ;  and,  as  I  turned  to  her,  I  caught  her 
eyes  fixed  steadily  on  me.  They  were  not  the  most  friendly 
glances  that  we  exchanged. 

"  I  was  afraid  that  you  were  ill,"  I  said  to  Lady  Jesmond. 

"  I  was  tired  this  morning,  Felicia,"  she  answered  gently  ; 
"  and  when  I  am  tired  I  am  afraid  that  I  give  way  to  fits  of 
moodiness.  I  am  better  now." 

I  then  left,  taking  Baby  Guy  with  me.  But  we  did  not 
dance  down  the  passages  this  time,  for  my  honor  had  been 
wounded  by  the  suspicion  this  woman  had  cast  upon  me. 
Why  was  she  on  such  confidential  terms  with  the  mistress  of 
Jesmond  Dene  ?  Addressing  her  with  formal  respect  when 
they  were  in  public,  why  did  she  call  her  "  Gabrielle  "  when 
they  were  alone  ? 

Lady  Jesmond  was  wonderfully  kind  to  her.  She  had  two 
rooms  most  comfortably  furnished,  and  she  was  waited  upon 
by  an  undernurse  who  did  all  the  work.  She  had  every  deli- 
cacy supplied  to  her,  and  her  ladyship  insisted  that  she  should 
take  wine.  Indeed  no  servant  could  have  led  a  more  com- 
fortable life  than  Mrs.  Rivers  led.  She  was  much  attached 
to  the  child,  and  seemed  very  devoted  to  Lady  Jesmond  ;  but 
there  was  nothing  by  which  I  could  account  for  the  strange 
familiarity  which  undoubtedly  existed  between  them.  I  saw 
Lady  Jesmond  angry  once,  and  I  was  the  unintentional  cause 
of  it.  We  were  talking  about  the  boy's  future,  about  Eton  and 
Harrow,  Oxford  and  Cambridge,  when,  quite  accidentally 
and  without  attaching  much  meaning  to  the  words,  I  said — 

"  You  will  have  to  decide  upon  one  or  the  other  when  Mrs. 
Rivers  has  gone." 

Lady  Jesmond  turned  to  me  with  flashing  eyes. 

"  That  time  will  never  come,"  she  said.  Mrs.  Rivers  will 
never  leave  me." 

I  was  surprised  that  she  should  display  so  much  feeling 
about  such  an  insignificant  matter.  Then,  seeing  my  look  of 
wonder,  she  apologized. 

"  I  am  so  impatient,  Felicia,"  she  said ;  "  and  I  am  very 
much  attached  to  nurse.  I  should  not  like  to  lose  her." 

"  I  hope  you  never  will,"  I  replied.  And,  though  we 
spoke  of  it  no  more,  the  subject  did  not  fade  from  my  mind. 


FAIR  BUT  FALS£.  3 1 7 


CHAPTER  XI. 

A  WEEK  had  elapsed  and  no  news  had  come  from  Ireland. 
Lady  Saxon  came  over  every  day  to  Jesmond  Dene,  for  she 
knew  I  was  a  very  willing  listener  to  anything  she  had  to  say 
about  Nello,  and  his  silence  had  caused  her  considerable  anx- 
iety. She  was  very  kind  and  attentive  to  aunt  Annette,  whose 
health  did  not  improve  ;  but  to  Lady  Jesmond  she  seemed  to 
have  a  quiet  antipathy.  They  were  most  polite  to  each  other 
but  rarely  spoke  except  to  exchange  ordinary  civilities. 

"  She  is  as  you  say,  Felicia,  a  most  beautiful  woman  ;  but 
I  do  not  like  her ;  and  I  do  not  know  why,"  Lady  Saxon  would 
say  to  me  ;  while  Lady  Jesmond  would  half  reproach  me  by 
saying — 

"  I  cannot  understand  what  you  see  in  Lady  Saxon.  She 
is  excessively  proud  and  haughty,  almost  repellent.  I  shall 
never  like  her." 

Lady  Saxon  was  very  kind  to  the  little  heir,  and  always 
asked  to  see  him  when  she  came,  never  forgetting  to  bring 
him  presents  of  toys,  and  she  soon  became  a  favorite  with  the 
child,  and  even  the  nurse. 

Mr.  Benson  had  gone  away  much  relieved  in  mind.  He 
was  delighted  that  I  was  going  to  remain  for  some  time  at 
the  Dene,  that  Lady  Jesmond  and  myself  were  good  friends, 
and  that  her  ladyship  had  insisted  on  making  me  an  al- 
lowance. 

"  I  do  not~care,"  she  said  to  the  lawyer,  "  whether  the 
money  is  taken  from  my  income  or  my  son's.  Miss  Gordon 
must  have  it." 

We  lived  in  peace  and  harmony,  and  as  the  days  went  on 
our  friendship  ripened  and  expanded. 

"  I  call  you  Felicia,"  she  said  to  me  one  morning ;  "  you 
should  call  me  Gabrielle.  I  prefer  it." 

And  it  was  mutually  agreed  that  for  the  future  we  should 
address  each  other  by  our  Christian  names. 

"  You  are  sure  to  have  a  love-story,  Felicia,"  she  said, 
after  contemplating  me  earnestly  as  I  stood  before  her  ; 
"  and,  unless  I  am  a  false  prophet,  it  will  not  be  a  happy 
one." 

"  Why  do  you  think  so  ?  "  I  asked  her. 


3 1  g  PAIR  B  t/T  FALS& 

"  I  can  read  it,"  she  replied,  "  in  your  face  and  eyes." 

"  You  have  had  a  love-story  of  your  own,"  I  said. 

"  I,"  she  cried,  her  brilliant  eyes  opened  wide — "  I  ?  Oh, 
no  ;  I  have  had  no  love-story." 

"  But  you  married  Paul  for  love  ?  "  I  said  ;  and  her  face 
flushed  crimson. 

She  laughed,  and  seemed  slightly  confused. 

"  To  tell  you  the  truth,  Felicia,"  she  said,  "  I  feel  thai  I 
could  love  more  deeply,  more  passionately  than  I  loved  Paul. 
I  was  young,  and  marriage  presented  an  easy  escape  from 
those  tiresome  children.  Besides,  I  had  a  great  desire  to  be 
Lady  Jesmond.  I  did  love  Paul,  but  I  am  sure  that  I  could 
love  more  deeply  than  I  loved  him." 

"  You  do  not  mean  to  say  that  you  would  marry  again, 
Gabrielle  ?  "  I  cried,  in  astonishment. 

"  I  am  certain  I  shall  if  I  fall  in  love  and  the  right  man 
asks  me  ;  "  and  she  laughed.  "  You  look  disappointed, 
Felicia." 

"  I  have  hitherto  thought  of  you  as  belonging  entirely  to 
Paul  and  little  Guy  and  Jesmond  Dene,"  I  answered. 

"  You  thought  I  should  be  an  ideal  widow  and  live  here . 
in  seclusion,  devoting  myself  entirely  to  the  education  of  my 
son  and  the  cultivation  of  a  lifelong  sorrow.     But  I  do  not 
aim  at  such  perfection." 

"  Your  heart  is  not  buried  in  your  husband's  grave,"  I 
remarked. 

"  No ;  it  is  beating,  living  full  of  hope,  light,  and  longing 
for  pleasures  and  gayeties.  I  shall  stay  here  at  Jesmond 
Dene  quietly  for  a  year,  and  then  you  will  see  what  will 
happen,  Felicia." 

"  You  are  by  no  means  a  model  widow,"  I  said. 

"  I  am  just  a  trifle  more  honest  than  many,"  she  rejoined. 
"  I  was  very  sorry  to  lose  Paul,  and  I  would  have  done  any- 
thing to  save  his  life ;  but,  as  it  was  the  will  of  Heaven  that 
he  should  die,  I  do  not  see  why  the  remainder  of  my  life 
should  be  all  darkness  and  gloom  ;  do  you  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not,  if  the  loss  of  him  does  not  make  it  so,"  I 
answered. 

"  I  am  ambitious,"  she  said.  "  I  intend  to  marry  well, 
unless  my  ambition  is  spoiled  by  love." 

We  were  standing  on  the  balcony  outside  the  library 
window  which  commanded  an  excellent  view  of  the  river  and 


PAIR  BUT  FALSE. 


319 


the  long  avenue  of  chestnuts  forming  the  drive.  Never  had 
I  seen  Lady  Jesmond  look  fairer.  The  fresh  morning  air 
had  tinted  her  cheeks  with  a  delicate  rose-bloom,  her  blue 
eyes  were  bright  as  stars,  and  the  light  summer  wind  toyed 
gently  with  the  loosened  masses  of  bright  waving  hair. 

"  Who  is  that  ? "  she  asked  suddenly,  pointing  to  a  tall 
figure  striding  up  the  avenue  toward  the  Hall. 

A  spray  of  roses  prevented  me  from  seeing  him  for  a 
moment ;  but,  on  pushing  it  hastily  aside,  I  saw  that  it  was 
Lord  Saxon. 

"  Who  is  that  ? "  repeated  Lady  Jesmond.  "  What  a 
splendid  man  !  "  Her  face  flushed,  and  her  eyes  shone  with 
a  brightness  such  as  I  had  not  seen  in  them  before.  "  Felicia, 
how  slow  you  are  !  Who  is  he  ? "  she  cried. 

But  my  tongue  clave  to  the  roof  of  my  mouth,  and  in 
vain  I  tried  to  give  utterance  to  his  name. 

"  I  have  seen  many  handsome  men,"  she  said,  "  but  never 
one  like  him." 

I  shall  never  forget  the  expression  of  suppressed  emotion 
on  her  face  as  she  watched  him. 

"  Do  you  know  him  ?     Who  is  he  ? "  she  repeated. 

"  It  is  Lord  Saxon,"  I  answered. 

"  Lord  Saxon  of  Dunroon  ?  You  do  not  mean  to  say 
that  is  Lady  Saxon's  son  ?  I  was  just  beginning  to  hate  the 
very  sound  of  his  name,  for  she  never  seems  to  speak  of  any 
one  else ;  but,  if  that  is  her  son,  I  at  once  abjure  my  dislike, 
and  will  listen  all  day  long  while  she  talks  of  him." 

I  heard  the  sound  of  footsteps,  and  a  servant's  voice  an- 
nounced— 

"Lord  Saxon." 

I  turned  quickly,  and,  in  doing  so,  I  saw  his  first  look  at 
her.  I  saw  how  his  eyes  flashed,  I  saw  the  gleam  of  admira- 
tion that  he  could  not  control,  and  I  knew  that  his  beauty-lov- 
ing nature  was  taken  captive  by  her  loveliness. 

He  looked  at  her  in  silence  for  a  few  moments ;  and  then 
with  difficulty,  as  I  could  see,  he  withdrew  his  eyes  from  her 
and  looked  at  me. 

"  Miss  Gordon,"  he  said,  "  I  am  glad  to  see  you  again." 

But  oh,  Heaven,  something  was  missing  from  his  voice 
that  I  might  never  hear  again  !  It  was  not  the  tender  voice 
that  had  whispered  "  Felicia  "  when  we  stood  on  the  lawn  on 
that  memorable  moonlit  night. 


FAIR  BUT  FALSE. 

I  held  out  my  hand  to  him,  but  my  heart  was  too  full  for 
my  lips  to  give  utterance  to  words.  Lord  Saxon  murmured 
something  to  me ;  I  was  conscious  only  that  he  desired  an 
introduction. 

Briefly  I  introduced  Lord  Saxon  to  Lady  Jesmond. 

He  spoke  first,  and  she  listened  as  with  charmed  ears; 
and,  as  she  responded  to  his  greeting,  his  eyes  seemed  riveted 
by  the  fair  loveliness  of  her  face.  He  stood  like  one  fasci- 
nated, unconscious  of  everything  around  him  but  the  dazzling 
brilliancy  of  Gabrielle,  Lady  Jesmond. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

AN  hour  passed,  and  still  the  conversation  was  kept  up 
with  unflagging  interest.  All  Lady  Jesmond's  powers  of 
fascination  were  brought  into  play.  Once  or  twice  his  lord- 
ship turned  to  me  with  some  commonplace  remark,  and  then 
at  one  bright  smile  from  her  he  instantly  forgot  me.  We 
were  still  out  on  the  balcony,  Lord  Saxon  seated  by  her  side, 
whilst  I  stood  gazing  at  the  roses  with  a  faint  sad  heart. 
What  had  happened  that  the  light  seemed  to  have  left  the 
sun  and  the  fragrance  to  have  fled  from  the  flowers  ? 

Lord  Saxon  was  "  a  lover  of  beauty  and  a  dreamer  of 
dreams "  I  knew  it — and,  now  that  he  had  met  with  a 
woman  of  surpassing  loveliness,  he  would  worship  at  her 
shrine.  Why  need  I  mind  ?  With  a  smile  on  my  face  I  stood 
there  whilst  my  heart  was  slowly  breaking;  for  I  knew,  just 
as  well  as  if  they  had  disclosed  their  thoughts,  that  a  passion- 
ate mutual  love  was  burning  in  their  hearts.  He  could  never 
have  loved  me  ;  it  had  been  but  a  passing  fancy.  This 
woman  had  stormed  his  heart  with  her  beauty,  and  he  had 
surrendered. 

AVhen  the  feeling  of  pain  had  somewhat  moderated,  I 
heard  what  they  were  saying. 

"  Not  ride  !"  cried  Lord  Saxon.  "  I  thought  all  ladies 
rode  in  India !" 

"  I  was  an  exception,"  she  said.  "  It  is  the  one  accom- 
plishment above  all  others  that  I  miss." 


FAIR  BUT  FALSE.  321 

11  Let  me  teach  you,"  he  begged  eagerly. 

"You  would  not  like  the  trouble,"  she  said  coquettishly. 

"  Trouble  !"  he  repeated.  "  Why,  it  would  give  me  the 
greatest  pleasure  and  delight !  " 

"  We  will  speak  of  it  later,"  she  said. 

Then  came  an  interruption,  in  the  shape  of  a  message 
from  the  nursery,  saying  that  Mrs.  Rivers  would  be  glad  if 
Lady  Jesmond  would  go  there  at  once,  as  Sir  Guy  did  not 
seem  well. 

Nello  and  I  were  left  on  the  balcony  alone.  Had  he  come 
to  talk  to  me  of  the  silvery  moon  and  the  nightingales'  song  ? 
Alas,  alas,  his  eyes  followed  Lady  Jesmond,  and,  when  she 
had  vanished  from  his  sight,  he  stood  with  a  dreamy,  musing 
smile  on  his  lips  1 

"He  is  a  dreamer  of  dreams,"  I  said  to  myself,  whilst  a 
bitter  pain  seized  my  heart ;  "  and  now  they  are  of  her,  not 
of  me." 

"  Felicia,"  he  said,  turning  to  me,  "  I  cannot  tell  you  how 
grieved  and  distressed  I  am  at  your  sudden  reversal  of  for- 
tune. I  could  hardly  believe  my  eyes  when  I  read  my 
mother's  letter,  and  found  that  Jesmond  Dene  was  no  longer 
yours.  Do  you  feel  the  loss  greatly  ?" 

His  words  were  kind  enough,  but  the  very  kindness  was  as 
a  dagger  thrust  into  my  heart  ;  it  showed  me  how  completely 
his  love  was  dead. 

The  loss  of  Jesmond  Dene  was  so  trifling  to  me  in  com- 
parison with  this  other  and  greater  loss  that  I  could  have 
laughed  at  the  question  ;  but  I  answered  it  soberly  enough. 

"  I  feel  it  most  deeply  ;  but  I  do  not  resent  it.  I  loved 
my  cousin  Paul,  and  I  am  glad  that  his  son  will  have  the 
estate." 

"  You  are  very  noble  and  very  good,"  he  said.  "  I  have 
thought  a  great  deal  about  it,  and  I  cannot  express  to  you 
how  glad  I  am  to  see  you  carry  such  a  brave  heart,  Felicia. 
Have  you  decided  yet  what  you  will  do  ?  " 

I  could  have  cried  out  in  my  anguish  that  I  had  hoped, 
had  thought  that  he  was  coming  to  settle  my  future  for  me  ; 
but  I  shrouded  myself  in  a  mantle  of  pride.  If  his  love  for 
me  was  so  weak  that  it  had  died  at  sight  of  a  fairer  face, 
what  had  it  been  worth  ? 

I  told  him  that  I  had  decided  on  nothing — that  for  the 


322 


FAIR  BUT  FALSE. 


present  I  should  remain  with  Lady  Jesmond,  as  she  had 
asked  me ;  also  that  my  aunt  was  too  ill  to  be  removed. 

"  I  should  like  to  see  your  cousin  Paul's  little  son,"  he 
said.  "  Certainly  his  widow  is  the  most  beautiful  woman  I 
ever  seen." 

"  And  you  worship  beauty,"  I  remarked  bitterly. 

How  deaf  he  was  to  the  anguish  that  rang  in  my  voice  ! 
He  laughed  frankly,  apparently  unaware  of  the  pain  he  had 
caused  me. 

"  So  my  mother  said,  Felicia ;  and  I  am  afraid  it  is  true. 
But  I  want  to  talk  to  you  of  yourself." 

When  Lady  Jesmond  returned  to  the  room,  laughing  at 
the  nurse's  anxiety  and  unnecessary  alarm,  he  immediately 
left  me  ;  and  the  next  moment  I  heard  him  beseeching  Lady 
Jesmond  to  drive  over  to  Dunroon. 

"  I  should  like  to  show  you  the  place  "  he  said.  "  Felicia 
will  drive  over  with  you." 

"  I  will  think  about  it,"  answered  Lady  Jesmond.  "  I 
never  make  hurried  promises." 

"  Felicia,"  cried  Lord  Saxon,  "  you  will  bring  Lady  Jes- 
mond over  to  Dunroon  ?  " 

"  When  she  likes  to  go." 

And  then  Lord  Saxon  rose  to  depart.  He  must  really  go, 
he  said  ;  he  had  stayed  much  longer  than  he  ought.  But 
even  after  that  declaration  he  lingered,  talking  to  her,  and 
watching  her  every  movement  with  admiring  eyes. 

So  this  was  the  prosaic  end  of  my  love  story  !  Had  he 
cared  for  me  ?  I  could  not  tell  ;  but  I  believed  he  had,  or 
he  would  not  have  kissed  me.  He  had  loved  me  with  a 
feeble  apology  for  love  which  had  died  when  he  saw  the  fair 
face  of  Lady  Jesmond.  I  had  tasted  happiness  but  to  lose 
it  ;  I  had  dreamed  my  love-dream  but  to  wake  and  find  it 
vanished.  I  had  been  unspeakably  happy  for  a  few  days, 
and  now,  without  any  warning,  the  cup  of  happiness  had 
been  dashed  from  my  lips,  the  blissful  delusion  had  been 
dispelled. 

When  Lord  Saxon  had  gone,  Lady  Jesmond  turned  to  me. 

"  Felicia,"  she  cried,  "  you  are  a  greater  mystery  than 
ever  to  me.  Imagine  knowing  such  a  man  as  that,  and  never 
speaking  of  him  !  You  must  be  as  unimpressionable  as 
marble." 

"  You  never  liked  Lady  Saxon,"  I  made  excuse. 


FAIR  BUT  FALSE. 


323 


"  It  did  not  follow  that  I  should  not  like  her  son,"  she 
said,  and  then  added,  "  I  have  a  presentiment  that  I  shall 
become  his  wife." 

"  You  must  wait  until  he  asks  you,"  I  ventured  to  sug- 
gest. 

"  Yes  ;  and  I  can  make  him  ask  me  whenever  I  like,"  she 
said  laughingly.  "  Why,  Felicia,  did  you  not  see  ?  " 

"  See  what  ?  "  I  asked  impatiently. 

"  Why,  that  he  was  in  love  with  me  from  the  first  moment 
that  we  met !  I  feel  it ;  I  am  sure  of  it.  And,  Felicia,  Feli- 
cia, I  am  afraid  my  own  case  is  like  his  !  He  is  the  first  man 
I  have  seen  whom  I  should  care  to  love  or  marry." 

"  You  forget  Paul,"  I  said,  shocked  at  her  words. 

"  I  do  not  forget  him.  But,  Felicia,  why  did  you  never 
speak  to  me  of  Lord  Saxon  ?  " 

"  How  could  I  tell  that  the  topic  would  interest  you  ?  "  I 
asked. 

"  You  might  have  been  sure,  knowing  what  a  superior  man 
he  is.  Now  I  shall  cultivate  his  mother's  friendship ;  and, 
Felicia,  you  will  take  me  to  Dunroon  ?  " 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

A  YEAR  passed,  and  to  me  it  was  one  of  slow  torturing 
agony.  My  strength  deserted  me,  the  color  faded  from  my 
cheeks,  the  light  from  my  eyes,  but  I  kept  my  secret.  No 
one,  except  perhaps  Lady  Saxon,  had  the  faintest  idea  that  I 
had  ever  cared  for  the  handsome  lord  of  Dunroon. 

It  was  impossible  for  me  not  to  watch  Nello  and  Lady 
Jesmond  as  they  sauntered  amid  the  trees  and  flowers,  hef 
bright  lovely  face  and  golden  hair  contrasting  with  his  dark, 
proud,  manly  beauty.  Never  was  lover  more  devoted  than 
Lord  Saxon.  He  came  every  day,  sometimes  twice  ;  and  I 
could  hear  his  voice  calling  "  Gabrielle,  Gabrielle  !  "  as  he 
sought  for  her  in  the  grounds.  He  was  proud  of  her  love, 
and  he  gloried  in  her  brilliant  beauty.  If  by  any  chance  he 
came  when  she  was  engaged  or  absent,  he  would  pour  out  all 
his  passionate  loving  thoughts  of  her  to  me.  Lashings  from 


FAIR  BUT  FALSE. 

a  fiery  whip  could  not  have  stung  me  more ;  but  I  listened 
with  a  smile  on  my  lips,  though  every  word  lacerated  my 
heart.  As  for  Lady  Jesmond,  she  gave  herself  up  completely 
to  her  love-dream. 

"  I  talked  of  ambition  once,"  she  said  to  me  ;  "  I  never 
could  have  had  any.  I  would  marry  Lord  Saxon  if  he  were  a 
peasant  instead  of  a  prince,  as  he  is." 

"  Do  you  love  him  so  much?  "  I  asked. 

"  Love  him,"  she  exclaimed,  with  a  warm  glow  on  her 
face — "  love  him  ?  That  is  a  weak  expression,  Felicia.  It 
is  something  deeper  and  stronger  than  simple  love.  I  always 
knew,"  she  continued,  "  that  if  ever  I  loved  at  all,  it  would 
be  in  terrible  earnest.  I  wish  I  had  more  moderation  and 
greater  self-control." 

They  were  acknowledged  lovers  when  she  spoke  in  that 
enthusiastic  fashion  ;  but  no  time  had  been  settled  for  the 
marriage.  My  aunt  Annette  was  still  lying  ill,  and  Lady 
Saxon  was  miserable. 

"  I  do  not  like  Lady  Jesmond,"  she  said  to  me  one  day 
when  we  were  alone  ;  "  I  have  never  likecl  her,  and  I  never 
shall.  I  do  not  trust  her.  There  is  something  strange  and 
mysterious  in  her  manner  which  repels  even  more  than  her 
glittering  loveliness.  I  am  anxious  that  my  son  should  be 
happy  ;  but  I  wish  he  had  chosen  differently,"  she  concluded, 
with  a  sigh. 

I  could  not  help  noting  that  there  were  times  when  Lady 
Jesmond  seemed  unhappy,  when  she  was  restless  and  un- 
easy, started  at  the  least  sound,  grew  pale  when  she  heard 
an  unusual  noise.  I  found  her  at  intervals  with  her  face 
clouded  with  thought,  and  her  bright  blue  eyes  shadowed.  It 
struck  me  that  she  spent  too  much  more  time  with  Mrs.  Rivers 
than  she  had  hitherto  done.  They  were  in  constant  and 
close  companionship,  always  talking  eagerly,  earnestly,  and 
in  whispers.  Two  other  things  struck  me  as  extremely  sin- 
gular— how  little  thought  Lady  Jesmond  bestowed  upon  her 
dead  husband  and  how  little  love  she  showed  for  her  child. 
All  her  interest  centered  in  Lord  Saxon. 

The  month  of  June  had  come  round  again,  and  still  I  was 
an  inmate  of  Jesmond  Dene.  I  could  not  leave,  first  because 
I  had  solemnly  promised  to  remain  for  a  time,  and  secondly 
because  my  aunt  Annette,  who  was  lying  ill  with  a  spinal 
complaintj  could  hardly  endure  my  being  out  of  her  presence, 


FAIR  BUT  FALSE.  325 

All  nature  smiled  in  the  summer  sun,  and  the  nightingales 
once  again  awoke  the  echoes  of  the  night  with  their  melodi- 
ous song. 

At  the  close  of  a  sultry  day,  when  the  moon  was  shining 
over  the  trees,  I  went  quietly  to  hear  the  nightingales,  as  I 
had  once  gone  with  Nello.  Bitter  were  my  thoughts,  hot  and 
bitter  were  my  tears.  She  had  taken  him  from  me,  this  beauti- 
ful woman  whose  little  son  had  deprived  me  of  my  inherit- 
ance. 

It  was  a  luxury  to  be  alone,  to  pour  forth  unrestrainedly 
the  agony  of  my  heart,  to  crouch  down  on  the  long  soft  grass 
and  sob  out  my  grief.  They  were  singing  so  exquisitely,  the 
nightingales,  and  yet  the  sweet  music  seemed  to  tear  my  very 
heart.  He  would  have  loved  me  and  married  me  but  for  her  ! 
Heaven  forgive  me — in  that  moment  I  hated  her  !  Ah,  if 
she  had  but  remained  in  India — if  my  cousin  Paul  had  but 
lived  !  And  the  plaint  of  Bianca  among  the  nightingales  came 
home  to  me. 

"  She  had  not  reached  him  at  my  heart 

With  her  fine  tongue,  as  snakes  indeed 
Kill  flies ;  nor  had  I,  for  my  part, 

Yearned  after,  in  my  desperate  need, 
And  followed  him,  as  he  did  her, 

To  coasts  left  bitter  by  the  tide, 
Whose  very  nightingales,  elsewhere 

Delighting,  torture  and  deride ; 
For  still  they  sing,  the  nightingales. 

"  I  would  not  for  her  white  and  pink, 

Though  such  he  lirtes,  her  grace  of  limb, 
Though  such  he  has  praised,  nor  yet  I  think 

For  life  itself,  though  spent  with  him, 
Commit  such  sacrilege,  affront 

God's  nature,  which  is  love,  intrude 
Twixt  two  affianced  souls,  and  hunt 

Like  spiders  in  the  altar  wood 
I  cannot  bear  those  nightingales  I 

"  If  she  chose  sin,  some  gentler  guise 

She  might  have  sinned  in,  so  it  seems. 
She  might  have  pricked  out  both  my  eyes, 

And  I  still  seen  him  in  my  dreams, 
Or  drugged  me  in  my  soup  or  wine, 

Nor  left  me  angry  afterward. 
To  die  here  with  his  hand  in  mine, 

His  breath  upon  me,  were  not  hard. 
Our  Lady,  hush  those  nightingales  ! 


326  FAIR  BUT  FALSE. 

u Sing  they  so, 

And  you  be  silent  ?    Do  I  speak. 
And  you  not  hear  ?    An  arm  you  throw 

Round  some  one,  and  I  feel  so  weak. 
Oh,  owl-like  birds  1     They  sing  for  spite, 

They  sing  for  hate,  they  sing  for  doom ; 
They'll  sing  through  death  who  sing  through  night, 

The'll  sing  and  stun  me  in  the  tomb — 
The  nightingales,  the  nightingales  !  " 

In  the  madness  of  my  despair  I  realized  how  much  I  had 
loved  him.  He  would  be  standing  now  on  the  balcony  with 
her  ;  he  would  be  worshiping  the  beauty  of  her  fair  face,  his 
arm  encircling  her  waist,  and  he  would  kiss  her  lovely  lips. 
And  I  was  lying  there,  lonely,  desolate,  and  broken-hearted  ! 
Was  it  just  ?  I  cried  to  the  silent  shining  heavens.  She  had 
everything,  she  had  had  the  trusting  love  of  my  bright  young 
cousin  ;  she  was  the  mother  of  his  heir ;  she  was  mistress  of  the 
home  that  had  been  mine  ;  she  had  money,  lands  ;  and  _now 
she  had  taken  him  !  Was  it  fair,  because  she  had  the  bright- 
ness of  the  stars  in  her  eyes  and  the  sheen  of  the  sun  in  her 
hair,  that  she  should  take  him  from  me  ?  Was  it  fair  that 
she  should  stand  in  the  circle  of  his  arm,  and  I  lie  forsaken 
there  ?  Was  it  fair  that  she  should  take  his  caresses  and  his 
kisses  while  I  stretched  out  my  arms  to  the  empty  air  ? 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

! 

THERE  was  a  surprise  in  store  for  me  when  I  returned 
from  my  dismal  ramble.  I  found  that  Lord  Saxon  had  re- 
mained rather  later  than  usual,  and  that  Lady  Jesmond  had 
discarded  her  widow's  weeds.  Never  shall  I  forget  the  vision 
of  loveliness  that  met  my  dazed  eyes.  She  wore  a  dress  of 
pale  violet  velvet,  which  contrasted  well  with  her  golden 
tresses  and  exquisite  complexion.  I  had  seen,  not  many 
days  before,  Lord  Saxon  take  the  little  crape  cap  from  her 
head,  and  all  her  shining  hair  fall  in  a  glorious  mass  of  rip- 
ples and  waves  about  her  shapely  shoulders. 

"  It  is  more  than  a  sin  to  cover  such  hair,"  he 
looked  up  to  him  with  sudden  gravity. 


FAIR  BUT  FALSE. 


327 


"  I  hope,"  she  answered  calmly,  "  that  I  shall  never  com- 
mit a  greater." 

"  I  do  not  think  you  could  commit  a  sin  if  you  tried,"  he 
said,  his  eyes  looking  into  hers  with  deep  yearning  love  ;  and, 
to  my  surprise,  instead  of  smiling,  her  gravity  deepened. 

The  remembrance  of  her  dazzling  beauty  of  that  evening 
will  never  leave  me.  I  remember,  too,  how  she  sung  to  him, 
and  how  he  leaned  admiringly  over  her  chair  and  drank  in 
the  music  of  her  sweet  voice  ;  and  then  they  went  out  on  to 
the  balcony,  where  he  bade  her  good-night,  bending  down 
and  kissing  her  lips,  and  breathing  passionate  words  into  her 
ears  which  seemed  to  stir  her  into  new  life. 

Then  he  was  gone  ;  and  she  stood  gazing  after  him  with 
a  smile  sweet  and  tender,  such  as  I  had  seldom  seen  on  her 
face  before. 

We  stood  together  once  more  ;  her  face  was  full  of  emo- 
tion, her  eyes  were  full  of  tears  of  joy. 

"  I  will  be  a  good  woman  my  whole  life  long,"  she  said 
suddenly,  "  I  will  be  as  good  as  woman  can  be  ;  for,  oh, 
Felicia,  I  am  so  happy — I  am  so  unutterably  happy  !  Do 
you  know  what  has  happened  ? " 

"  No,"  I  answered  faintly ;  but  my  heart  told  me  what 
was  coming. 

Two  warm  soft  arms  were  placed  round  my  neck,  a  golden 
head  nestled  on  my  bosom,  a  fair  bewitching  face  was  turned 
to  mine,  tears  shone  in  the  blue  eyes. 

"Listen  to  me,  Felicia,"  she  said.  "I  am  the  happiest 
woman  in  the  whole  wide  world.  Oh,  I  will  be  good — I  will 
indeed  be  good  !  " 

"  But  you  are  good  now,  Gabrielle,"  I  said,  anxious  only 
to  avert  the  coming  announcement. 

"  I  will  be  better  !  "  she  cried.  "  Oh,  Felicia,  I  do  not 
deserve  to  be  so  happy  ! " 

The  white  arms  tightened  their  clasp  and  the  beautiful 
head  nestled  more  closely  to  me. 

"  I  shall  remember  to-day  above  all  other  days,"  she 
said  ;  "  it  is  the  happiest  of  my  life.  Felicia,  I  am  shy  at 
telling  you  my  good  news.  Lord  Saxon  has  asked  me  to  be 
his  wife,  and  wishes  me  to  marry  him  this  summer." 

There  was  a  dead  silence  as  her  voice  died  away ;  the 
smile  on  her  face  was  full  of  unutterable  content. 

The  blow  which  I  had  so  long  expected  had  at  last  fallen. 


FAIR  BUT  FALSE, 

I  must  go  away,  far  away,  where  I  could  never  hear  of  or  see 
either  of  them  again  ! 

"  This  summer,"  she  repeated  ;  "  and,  now  that  my  hap- 
piness is  so  near,  I — I  am  afraid  of  it — afraid  !  "  she  re- 
peated, raising  her  face  and  kissing  me.  "  Can  you  say  any- 
thing that  will  give  me  courage  ?  " 

"  You  have  nothing  to  fear,"  I  said,  with  difficulty. 

"  Is  it  colder  than  usual  to-night  ?  "  she  asked.  "  The 
air  is  sweet  with  roses,  but  it  seems  to  me  chill ;  "  and  I  felt 
a  shudder  pass  over  the  graceful  figure.  "  I  wish,"  she  added, 
with  sudden  melancholy,  "  that  I  had  my  life  to  begin  over 
again.  All  people  make  grave  mistakes  at  one  time  or  an- 
other in  their  lives,  do  they  not  ?  " 

"  Very  many  do,"  I  replied — who  had  made  a  greater  one 
than  I  ?  "  But  surely  you  are  not  among  the  number,  Ga- 
brielle — you  can  have  made  no  mistake  in  your  life  ?  " 

"She  looked  at  me  with  wistful  longing  eyes. 

"  I  did  not  know,"  she  said,  "  that  pure  love  brought  so 
much  with  it.  I  find  the  first  thing  is  a  craving  to  be  worthy 
of  it." 

"  I  hope  you  are  worthy  of  it,"  I  answered  gravely.  Her 
curious  words  and  manner  began  to  make  me  feel  anxious. 

"  I  will  try  to  be,"  she  said.  "  Felicia,"  she  continued, 
drawing  my  face  down  to  hers  and  kissing  it  again,  "  you 
have  known  Nello  longer  than  I  have  ;  do  you  think,  if  he 
loved  any  one  very  much,  and  found  out  that  she  he  loved 
had  done  a  great  wrong,  he  would  forgive  readily  ?  " 

"  It  would  depend  altogether  on  the  nature  of  the  wrong 
committed,"  I  replied.  "  I  should  imagine  that  he  would  be 
ready  to  overlook  ordinary  faults  and  weaknesses  ;  but  there 
are  some  things  that  he  would  never  pardon." 

"  What  are  they  ?  "  she  asked  breathlessly. 

"  He  hates  trickery  and  deceit,"  I  answered.  "  He 
would,  I  believe,  almost  forgive  murder  sooner  than  anything 
of  that  nature." 

She  was  looking  at  me  with  wide-opened  frightened  eyes. 

"  He  would  sooner  forgive  murder  than  deceit !  "  she 
echoed. 

The  words  had  a  strange  sound  as  she  uttered  them,  and 
made  a  lasting  impression  upon  me. 

"  I  am  sure  it  is  cold,"  she  remarked,  after  a  pause  ;  and 
once  again  she  shuddered. 


FAIR  BUT  FALSE. 


329 


She  began  to  pace  up  and  down  the  long  drawing-room. 

"  You  will  think  that  I  am  behaving  strangely  to-night," 
she  said,  "  I  am  uneasy  ;  I  cannot  rest." 

I  attempted  to  go,  but  she  cried  out,  "  Felicia,  do  not 
leave  me  !  " 

"  It  is  strange,"  she  said  presently,  with  rare  humility, 
"  that  out  of  all  the  world  of  women  Nello  should  have 
chosen  me." 

"  I  do  not  think  so,"  I  replied  quickly.  "  He  loves  you 
because  you  are  one  of  the  most  beautiful." 

She  looked  sad  and  disappointed. 

"  Do  you  think  it  is  only  for  my  beauty  that  he  loves 
me  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Would  not  that  content  you  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"  Not  now,"  she  answered  slowly.  "  It  would  once  ;  it 
will  not  satisfy  me  now.  Love  has  opened  my  eyes  to  a 
hundred  things  I  did  not  know  before." 

"  You  really  do  not  seem  to  have  loved  my  cousin,"  I  was 
startled  into  saying. 

"  No,"  she  replied — and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears — "  I 
did  not  love  Paul — not  in  this  fashion,  at  least." 

They  I  advised  her  to  go  to  rest.  Her  face  was  burning, 
her  eyes  were  shining  with  a  strange  light,  her  golden  hair 
had  fallen  over  her  shoulders  in  careless  profusion.  Never 
was  vision  of  womanhood  so  fair  ! 

"  I  am  so  loath  to  see  the  happiest  day  of  my  life  come 
to  an  end,"  she  said,  "  that  I  feel  compelled  to  linger  here. 
Felicia,  have  you  ever  had  what  people  call  a  presentiment  ?" 

"  Yes,  often,"  I  answered. 

"  Have  they  been  realized  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  More  often  than  not,"  I  replied. 

-    "  I  have  a  presentiment  to  night — a  feeling  that  tells  me 
to-morrow  will  not  be  like  to-day." 

"  You  will  be  happier  than  ever  to-morrow,"  I  said. 
"  Lord  Saxon  will  come  over  to  Jesmond  Dene  quite  early, 
and  he  will  want  to  drive  you  or  ride  with  you  to  one  of  your 
favorite  haunts.  Then  you  will  romp  on  the  staircase  with 
little  Guy  ;  you  will  go  off  in  excellent  spirits  ;  and  you  will 
have  quite  forgotten  your  presentiment  when  you  return." 

"  Good-night,  Felicia,"  she  said  ;  "  you  have  comforted 
me." 

I  kissed  her,  and  said  "  Good-night." 


33° 


FAIR  BUT  FALSE. 


When  I  awoke  the  next  morning,  my  first  thought  was 
that  I  must  go  from  Jesmond  Dene.  I  could  not  bear  to 
remain  in  the  place  that  had  seen  my  hopes  crushed  and  my 
love  ruthlessly  blasted. 

Just  as  I  had  prophesied,  Lord  Saxon  came  over  quite 
early,  as  he  wanted  to  drive  Lady  Jesmond  to  St.  Michael's 
Priory,  a  fine  ruin  about  ten  miles  distant. 

"  A  whole  day,  my  darling,  out  in  the  sunshine  together  !  " 
I  heard  him  say. 

They  went  to  the  nursery,  whence  I  heard  issue  shrill  peals 
of  sweet  childish  laughter.  I  went  after  them  with  a  mes- 
sage for  Lady  Jesmond.  Lord  Saxon  was  tossing  the  child  in 
his  arms,  delighting  and  frightening  him  at  the  same  time. 
Lady  Jesmond  was  speaking  to  the  nurse  at  the  other  end  of 
the  room,  and  again  I  caught  the  words,  "  Be  careful,  Gabri- 
elle  ;  "  and  once  more  I  wondered  why  the  nurse  should 
presume  so  to  address  her  mistress. 

Nello  and  Lady  Jesmond  rode  away  together,  and  there 
was  no  shadow  on  her  lovely  laughing  face  as  she  wished  me 
a  pleasant  "  Good-morning." 


CHAPTER  XV. 

THE  clock  was  striking  twelve  when  the  footman  brought 
me  a  card,  with  the  announcement  that  the  visitor  had  asked 
for  Lady  Jesmond,  but  that,  on  being  told  that  she  was  from 
home,  he  had  requested  to  see  me. 

Taking  up  the  card,  I  read  the  name  of  Major  Esmond  ; 
and  I  remembered  that  Gabrielle  was  living  in  his  family, 
teaching  his  children,  when  she  first  met  Paul. 

I  hastened  from  my  seat  on  the  lawn  to  the  drawing-room 
and  there  found  a  fine,  tall,  soldierly  man  awaiting  me. 

"  I  presume  I  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  Miss  Gordon," 
he  said,  as  he  rose  and  bowed,  "  whom  I  already  know  well 
by  report  ?  I  called  on  Mr.  Benson  as  I  passed  through  Lon- 
don, and  he  spoke  much  of  you.  I  am  Major  Esmond. 
Lady  Jesmond  was  living  in  my  house  when  she  met  your 
cousin  Paul. 


FAIR  BUT  FALSE. 


33* 


I  replied  that  we  had  often  spoken  of  those  days,  and  that, 
although  Lady  Jesmond  was  not  just  then  at  home,  I  felt 
sure  she  would  welcome  him  most  cordially  to  Jesmond  Dene. 
I  invited  him  to  partake  of  some  refreshment  ;  and,  as  he 
drank  a  glass  of  sherry,  he  told  me  what  had  brought  him 
home. 

"  I  have  but  six  months'  leave  of  absence,"  he  said,  "  and 
I  had  some  difficulty  in  getting  that  ;  but  we  have  had  a 
lawsuit  in  our  family  which  has  lasted  sixteen  years,  and  I 
have  just  won  it.  I  was  compelled  to  come  to  England  to 
settle  affairs  ;  and  before  I  left  India  my  wife,  who  was 
warmly  attached  to  Miss  Fairfax,  now  Lady  Jesmond,  begged 
me  run  down  to  Jesmond  Dene  to  see  her.  I  ought  to  have 
written  ;  but,  finding  myself  with  two  days  to  spare,  I  decided 
to  come  down  unannounced.  How  is  Lady  Jesmond  ?  " 

"  She  is  exceedingly  well,"  I  answered. 

"  I  am  glad  of  that.  She  was  very  delicate  when  she  left 
India  ;  her  husband's  death  was  a  terrible  blow  to  her." 

I  thought  to  myself  that  she  must  have  changed  greatly 
if  sorrow  for  Paul's  death  had  made  her  ill. 

"  It  was  only  natural,"  I  said. 

"  She  was  always  very  delicate — indeed  some  of  us  thought 
she  would  not  stand  the  voyage,"  said  the  major  earnestly. 

"  In  what  way  was  she  delicate  ?  "  I  asked  wonderingly, 
for  Lady  Jesmond  had  always  seemed  to  me  the  very  personi- 
fication of  health  and  strength. 

"  She  seemed  to  be  consumptive,"  he  replied  ;  "but  I  am 
delighted  to  hear  that  she  is  better. 

"  I  have  never  seen  or  known  her  anything  but  perfectly 
well  and  robust."  And  he  repeated  that  he  was  very  glad  to 
hear  it. 

"  Miss  Fairfax  was  in  delicate  health  the  whole  time  she 
lived  with  us,"  continued  the  major.  "  Mrs.  Esmond  was 
always  more  or  less  anxious  about  her.  She  will  be  pleased 
to  hear  of  her  perfect  recovery.  And  how  is  little  Sir  Guy  ?  " 

I  told  him  how  well  the  boy  was  progressing,  and  what  a 
pet  he  was  ;  how  every  one  loved  and  indulged  him.  I  told 
him  too  what  a  devoted  nurse  he  had ;  and  the  major  ap- 
peared thoroughly  delighted  to  hear  such  excellent  news. 

"  We  were  very  much  attached  to  Miss  Fairfax,"  he  con- 
tinued. "  My  children  loved  her  as  though  she  was  one  of 
the  family.  She  wast  as  good  as  she  was  beautiful" 


332 


FAIR  BUT  FALSE 


Again  the  old  familiar  phrase  that  had  puzzled  me  so 
often !  I  should  certainly  not  have  described  Gabrielle  as 
being  as  good  as  she  was  fair. 

"  I  have  never  seen  any  one  so  perfectly  patient  as  she 
was,"  he  went  on. 

"  Patience  is  the  very  last  virtue  I  should  attribute  to 
Lady  Jesmond,"  I  remarked,  with  a  smile. 

"  You  surprise  me ! "  he  said,  with  a  pleasant  laugh. 
Then,  changing  the  subject,  he  added,  "  What  a  magnificent 
place  this  is,  Miss  Gordon  !  I  had  no  idea  that  I  should  find 
it  so  large." 

"  Lady  Jesmond  was  greatly  surprised  when  she  first 
came." 

"  Was  she  very  much  pleased  ? "  he  asked. 

"  Yes — delighted,"  I  answered. 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  that,"  said  the  kind-hearted  soldier. 
"  I  was  afraid  she  would  never  take  an  interest  in  anything 
again.  Hers  was  so  entirely  a  love  match." 

I  thought  of  her  words — "  Marriage  provided  an  easy 
escape  from  the  slavery  of  teaching;  besides  which,  I  liked 
the  idea  of  being  Lady  Jesmond."  Evidently  the  major  and 
myself  viewed  the  beautiful  Gabrielle's  character  from  very 
different  stand-points. 

I  ordered  luncheon  for  Major  Esmond,  and  then  left  him 
to  rest,  promising  to  bring  Lady  Jesmond  to  him  directly  she 
returned. 

After  luncheon  the  major  fell  asleep,  and  I  went  to  sit 
with  aunt  Annette  for  an  hour  or  two. 

Then  it  occurred  to  me  that  he  would  probably  like  some 
coffee.  It  was  just  four  o'clock  when  I  entered  the  drawing- 
room,  where  he  sat,  to  ask  him.  He  looked  the  picture  of 
comfort,  with  newspapers  and  magazines  scattered  on  the 
table  near  him. 

"If  I  have  a  weakness,"  said  the  major,  "  it  is  for  coffee. 
I  shall  be  delighted  to  take  a  cup." 

In  my  own  mind  I  had  decided  that  Lord  Saxon  and  Ga- 
brielle would  return  about  five,  in  time  to  rest  and  dress  for 
dinner.  "  A  whole  day  in  the  sunshine,  my  darling,"  he  had 
whispered ;  and  I  therefore  felt  sure  they  would  not  hasten 
to  return. 

Suddenly,  just  as  I  was  inquiring  whether  the  major  would 
take  milk  and  sugar  with  his  coffee,  I  heard  the  sound  of 


FAIR  BUT  FALSE. 


333 


their  voices.  They  had  returned  by  what  we  called  the  road, 
and  had  passed  into  the  courtyard  instead  of  riding  up  the 
drive.  They  walked  together  toward  the  drawing-room  win- 
dows, which  were  wide  open. 

She  came  on,  talking  and  laughing  gayly,  to  her  doom. 
His  arm  was  thrown  lightly  round  her,  after  his  usual  caress- 
ing fashion,  and  her  beautiful  face,  wreathed  in  smiles,  was 
raised  to  his. 

"  Lady  Jesmond  has  returned,"  I  said  to  the  major. 

His  face  brightened  perceptibly  at  the  words. 

Just  at  that  moment  her  ladyship  and  Lord  Saxon  came 
to  the  long  open  glass  doors,  and  entered  the  room. 

The  major  rose  and  bowed  as  he  glanced  at  the  beautiful 
woman,  but  there  was  no  sign  of  recognition  between  them. 

I  looked  at  her,  expecting  her  to  welcome  affectionately 
one  who  had  been  so  devoted  a  friend  to  her  and  Paul.  As 
she  did  not  move,  I  went  to  her. 

"  Gabrielle,"  I  said,  "your  old  friend  Major  Esmond  is 
on  leave  of  absence,  and  has  come  to  see  you." 

Then  I  drew  back  in  fear  and  trembling,  for  I  saw  that 
there  was  something  terribly  wrong.  Her  face  grew  colorless 
while  the  light  seemed  suddenly  to  fade  from  her  eyes,  and  a 
startled  fear  to  take  possession  of  her.  I  pray  Heaven  that 
I  may  never  again  witness  such  torture  as  I  read  on  that 
woman's  face. 

She  did  not  look  at  the  major.  Her  eyes  sought  Lord 
Saxon,  and  rested  piteously  on  his  handsome  face.  The 
major  seemed  confused  and  uncomfortable. 

"I  am  very  sorry,"  he  said  hesitatingly;  "I  am  afraid 
that  I  have  made  some  mistake.  It  was  Lady  Jesmond,  my 
old  friend  Gabrielle  Fairfax,  the  widow  of  Captain  Paul  Jes- 
mond, whom  I  called  to  see." 

She  raised  her  head  with  desperate  courage,  and  looked 
into  his  face.  There  was  a  certain  pathetic  dignity  in  her 
manner  as  her  eyes  met  his. 

"  I  am  Lady  Jesmond,"  she  said  proudly. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  madam,"  returned  the  major.  "  I 
am  convinced  there  is  a  great  mistake  somewhere.  You  are 
not  the  Mrs.  Paul  Desmond  I  had  the  honor  of  knowing  in 
India." 

"  I  am  Lady  Jesmond,"  she  repeated  ;  but  the  color  did 
not  return  to  her  lips,  nor  the  light  to  her  eyes. 


334 


FAIR  BUT  FALSE. 


11  You  are  not  the  widow  of  the  late  Captain  Jesmond," 
he  said. 

';  I  am  the  widow  of  Paul  Jesmond,"  she  replied. 

"  You  are  not  the  mother  of  the  child  who  left  India  in  his 
o.vn  mother's  arms  !  "  he  cried  ;  and  this  time  his  face  flushed 
\.l.h  impatience,  as  he  looked  at  the  woman  standing  like  a 
.'  r^.tue  before  him. 

"  I  am  the  mother  of  little  Guy,"  she  answered. 

"  I  swear  before  Heaven  that  you  are  not  the  same 
Gabrielle  Fairfax  who  lived  in  my  house  ! "  he  cried. 

She  paused  a  moment,  then  answered — 

"  I  am  Gabrielle  Fairfax." 

"  You  are  not !  "  contradicted  the  major  warmly.  ''Who 
you  are,  madam,  is  best  known  to  yourself,  and  does  not  con- 
cern me  ;  but  you  are  not  Gabrielle  Fairfax,  the  young  lady 
who  lived  in  my  house,  who  taught  my  children,  who  married 
Paul  Jesmond,  and  whom  I  myself  gave  away  at  the  altar. 
Emphatically  and  most  certainly  you  are  not  she-  You  might 
as  well  try  to  make  me  believe  that  I  am  the  Viceroy  of 
India." 

"  You  may  be  for  all  I  know  to  the  contrary,"  she  said, 
with  simulated  pride  and  contempt. 

"  I  can  bring  hundreds  of  people  to  prove  that  I  am  Major 
Esmond.  I  do  not  think,  madam,  that  you  will  find  one  who 
can  give  truthful  testimony  to  the  fact  that  you  are  Lady 
Jesmond." 

And  then,  seeing  that  her  face  grew  paler,  and  that  she 
trembled  violently,  Lord  Saxon  went  to  her.  She  held  out 
her  arms  to  him,  as  though  he  were  her  only  rock  of  refuge, 
and  he  clasped  her  to  his  breast  with  a  passionate  cry. 

"  What  is  it,  my  darling  ?  "  he  said.  "  I  do  not  understand. 
Tell  me  what  is  wrong." 

She  rose  slowly  from  his  circling  arms,  and  pointed  to 
Major  Esmond. 

"  Nello,"  she  exclaimed,  "  that  man  has  insulted  me  !  He 
is  mad  !  " 

The  major  seemed  rather  relieved  to  have  a  man  to  deal 
with,  and  when  these  words  fell  from  her  turned  impatiently 
to  Lord  Saxon. 

"I  am  sane  enough,"  he  said;  "but,  mad  or  sane,  I 
persist  in  denying  that  that  lady  is  Gabrielle  Fairfax  or  Lady 
Jesmond." 


FAIR  BUT  FALSE: 


335 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

MAJOR  ESMOND,  who  had  at  first  seemed  anxious  and 
distressed,  now  stood  erect  and  at  ease,  evidently  with  the 
consciousness  of  one  who  had  suddenly  realized  that  he  was 
to  be  the  means  of  exposing  what  at  present  looked  like  a 
gigantic  fraud.  The  smile  which  had  rested  on  his  handsome 
face  was  no  longer  there  ;  a  stern  grave  expression  had  taken 
its  place.  Lord  Saxon  looked  perplexed  and  bewildered, 
but  his  face  was  full  of  love  and  tenderness,  and  turned  always 
toward  the  woman  beside  him. 

No  idea  that  she  could  be  an  impostor  had  ever  occurred 
to  me — indeed  the  frank  and  open  way  in  which  she  had 
spoken  of  her  past  life,  of  her  marriage,  of  my  Cousin  Paul, 
of  the  fact  that  she  had  never  been  in  love  until  now,  seemed 
to  me  guarantees  of  her  identity  and  honesty.  But  there  was 
fear  in  the  agonized  face  now  raised  beseechingly  to  her 
lover — startled,  terrible  fear ;  and,  if  she  were  innocent,  why 
need  she  tremble  at  the  visit  of  one  who  had  acted  as  a  father 
toward  her  ? 

Lord  Saxon,  drawing  her  nearer  to  him,  turned  angaily  to 
Major  Esmond. 

"  This  lady,"  he  said,  "  is  soon  to  become  my  wife  ;  any- 
thing you  may  have  to  say  against  her  or  about  her  will  be 
my  affair,  not  hers." 

"  With  all  the  pleasure  in  the  world,"  rejoined  Major 
Esmond.  "  I  have  nothing  to  say  against  the  lady — how 
could  I  when  this  is  the  first  time  I  have  seen  her  ?  How 
could  I,  either,  say  anything  about  her  when  she  is  an  entire 
stranger  to  me  ?  " 

"  You  deny  her  identity  !  "  cried  Lord  Saxon. 

"  I  do  not  indeed.  I  simply  affirm  and  repeat  that  this 
lady  is  not  Gabrielle  Fairfax,  who  lived  as  governess  in  my 
house.  I  seem,"  continued  the  major,  "  to  have  hit  upon 
some  family  secret  or  mystery  of  which  I  know  nothing.  The 
case  seems  simple  enough  to  me.  The  young  lady  whom  I 
seek  lived  in  my  house,  where  she  was  treated  with  the  utmost 


336  FAIR  BUT  FALSE. 

kindness  and  affection.  We  were  present  at  her  marriage ; 
we  had  the  same  warm  feeling  for  her  afterward.  When  I 
was  returning  to  England,  my  wife's  first  request  was  that  I 
should  call  upon  Gabrielle  Fairfax,  now  Lady  Jesmond.  At 
some  inconvenience  to  myself  I  came  hither,  desiring  to  see  the 
young  girl  I  had  befriended  and  helped.  I  find  brought  to 
me  as  Lady  Jesmond  a  total  stranger — a  beautiful  woman, 
but  a  total  stranger  to  me — and  you  are  angry  because  I  speak 
out  and  say  so.  I  am  sorry  I  came.  I  wish  I  had  been  a  thou- 
sand miles  away  ;  but,  being  here,  I  must  speak  the  truth.  This 
lady  who  calls  herselfLady  Jesmond  is  not  the  Gabrielle  Fair* 
fax  who  lived  with  us.  Our  Gabrielle  Fairfax,"  he  continued, 
"  was  a  fragile  delicate  girl  with  a  fair  angelic  face  which  had 
a  consumptive  look.  Her  eyes  were  gray,  and  her  hair  was 
more  brown  than  golden.  I  swear  before  Heaven  that  this 
lady  is  not  the  bride  whom  I  gave  away  to  be  Paul  Jesmond's 
wife.  You  doubt  me,"  said  the  major,  looking  toward  Lord 
Saxon.  "  I  can  give  you  positive  proof  of  the  truth  of  what 
I  say."  Then  he  looked  round  upon  us,  as  if  specially  to 
engage  our  attention.  "  Listen. — I  can  give  you  overwhelm- 
ing proof  that  this  lady  is  not  Gabrielle  Fairfax.  You  know 
— all  my  friends  know — that  Miss  Fairfax  lived  in  my  house 
for  two  years  ;  it  is  also  well  known  that  I  gave  her  away  at 
her  marriage,  Now  I  appeal  to  you,  Miss  Gordon,  and  to 
you,  Lord  Saxon,  to  take  note  of  this — not  only  did  I  utterly 
fail  to  recognize  Lady  Jesmond  when  she  entered  the  room, 
but  she  also  failed  to  recognize  me.  Was  it  not  so  ?  I  appeal 
to  you  both.  Did  she  recognize  me  ?  " 

We  were  compelled  to  answer  "  No." 

"  The  Gabrielle  Fairfax  who  left  my  house  in  tears 
because  she  loved  us  all  so  well  would  have  come  to  me  as  a 
daughter,  would  ha^ve  taken  my  hands  in  affectionate  greet- 
ing, would  have  bidden  me  a  hundred  times  welcome  to  her 
home.  If  this  be  Lady  Jesmond,  why  did  she  meet  me  in 
silence  and  without  recognition  ?  There  is  no  answer  to  the 
question  ;  there  can  be  none.  One  of  two  things  must  be 
clear  to  you,  Miss  Gordon,  and  to  you,  Lord  Saxon.  Either 
I  am  not  Major  Esmond,  or  this  lady  is  not  Gabrielle  Fairfax. 
Now  I  am  prepared  to  prove  my  identity.  To  begin — I  am 
personally  well  known  to  the  commander-in-chief  and  to  many 
of  the  officials  at  the  Horse  Guards  ;  and  I  can  bring  more 
than  a  hundred  gentlemen,  all  men  of  position,  to  prove  that 


FAIR  BUT  FALSE. 


337 


I  am  Major  Esmond.  I  will  wait  here,  if  you  wish  it,  until 
more  than  sufficient  evidence  is  brought  forward  to  prove  it. 
Wnen  it  is  conclusively  proved,  it  will  be  for  you  to  find  out 
who  this  lady  is  whom  you  have  received  as  Lady  Jesmond." 

Lord  Saxon  looked  at  me  with  fear  and  dismay  depicted 
on  his  face.  His  eyes  sought  mine  with  a  horrible  question- 
ing in  them. 

"  I  received  Lady  Jesmond,"  I  said ;  "  and  I  have 
never  had  the  least  doubt  as  to  her  identity.  She  came  her* 
with  her  infant  son,  and  at  once  took  up  her  position  as 
mistress  of  Jesmond  Dene.  Mr.  Benson,  too,"  I  added,  "  was 
fully  satisfied  as  to  the  validity  and  genuineness  of  her 
claim." 

"  I  am  sorry  I  should  be  the  means  of  creating  so  much 
unpleasantness,"  returned  the  major  ;  "  but  justice  should  be 
done.  The  lady  will  pardon  me  perhaps  if  I  ask  her  a 
few  questions.  What,  for  instance,  were  the  names  of  my 
three  children  ?  " 

She  made  no  answer,  but  clung  more  closely  to  her  lover. 

"  Can  you  tell  me  one  detail  of  the  wedding — where  it 
took  place — the  name  of  the  clergyman  who  married  you  ? 
Can  you  describe  the  dress  you  wore  ?  What  happened  just 
as  we  were  leaving  the  church  ?  " 

Again  she  did  not  reply,  but  flung  her  arms  round  her 
lover's  neck,  crying  despairingly — 

"  Oh,  Nello,  Nello  !  " 

"  I  do  not  think,"  said  the  major  quietly,  "that  there  is 
any  need  to  prolong  this  painful  scene.  I  will  relieve  you  of 
my  presence,  and  then  the  lady  may  be  inclined  to  throw 
some  light  upon  the  matter."  Then,  turning  to  me,  he  said, 
"  I  thank  you,  Miss  Gordon,  for  your  kindness  and  hospital- 
ity. I  should  have  been  very  glad  to  help  you  to  solve  the 
mystery;  but  perhaps  you  will  let  me  hear  the  solution  before 
I  leave  England.  I  need  hardly  add  that  you  may  rely  upon 
my  silence." 

"  Stay !  "  cried  Lord  Saxon.  "  You  must  not  leave  us  in 
this  suspense." 

"  There  is  no  suspense,"  rejoined  the  major.  "You  may 
take  it  as  an  established  fact  that  that  lady  is  not  Lady  Jes- 
mond." Then,  as  if  suddenly  remembering  something,  he 
added  quickly.  "  I  can  give  you  another  and  what  ought  to  be 
an  overwhelming  proof  of  what  I  say.  I  had  forgotten  it  until 


FAIR  BUT  FALSE. 

just  this  moment.  The  clergyman  who  married  Gabrielle 
Fairfax  and  Captain  Jesmond  is  now  in  London.  He  was 
sent  home  on  the  sick-list,  and  arrived  in  England  last 
month.  The  proper  and  most  satisfactory  course  would  be 
to  telegraph  for  him.  I  can  give  you  his  address.  He  is  a 
friend  of  mine,  and  he  knew  Miss  Fairfax.  Let  him  come, 
and  we  will  abide  by  his  decision." 

"  Oh,  Nello,  Nello,"  cried  the  unhappy  girl,  "  not  that, 
not  that !  " 

"  Shall  it  be  so,  my  darling  ?  "  asked  his  lordship.  "  If 
this  clergyman  can  prove  that  the  major  is  wrong  and  you 
are  right,  by  all  means  let  him  come." 

But  she  clung  to  him,  weeping  passionate  tears,  and 
cried — 

"  Not  that !  Oh,  Nello,  Nello,  that !  " 

"  Will  you  not  see  him  ?  "  asked  Lord  Saxon  gently. 

"  No,  no — a  thousand  times  no !  "  she  cried. 

"  Tell  me  why  you  will  not  see  him,  Gabrielle,"  he  said, 
gazing  on  the  face  he  loved  so  well.  "  If  he,  by  seeing  you 
for  a  moment,  can  disprove  what  the  major  asserts,  and 
prove  your  truth,  why  not  see  him  ?  " 

"  Yes./'  put  in  the  major  quietly,  "  why  not  see  him  ?  " 

"  Say  '  Yes,'  Gabrielle,"  said  her  lover,  "It  is  an  easy 
way  of  meeting  the  difficulty.  Do  you  not  see,  my  darling, 
that  if  you  refuse  this  test  it  will  look  like  guilt  ?  " 

But  his  entreaties  were  all  in  vain. 

"  No  man,"  said  the  major,  "  ever  found  himself  in  such 
a  painful  position,  I  do  believe ;  yet,  if  there  has  been  a 
fraud,  it  should  be  exposed." 

"  Do  not  use  the  word  '  fraud '  in  connection  with  this 
lady !  "  cried  Lord  Saxon,  with  a  darkening  face. 

"  I  have  no  wish  to  do  so ;  but,  if  she  is  not  Lady  Jes- 
mond, is  she  not  guilty  of  a  most  wicked  fraud,  one  that  no 
honest  man  could  ever  tolerate  or  forgive  ?  " 

"  Nello,  Nello  !  "  cried  Lady  Jesmond  ;  and  the  drooping 
figure  nearly  slipped  from  his  clasp,  while  the  colorless  face 
dropped  heavily  upon  his  breast. 

"  I  believe,"  he  cried,  turning  with  hot  anger  to  the 
major,  "  that  you  have  killed  her  !  " 

"  It  is  not  I  who  have  killed  her,"  said  the  major  gravely. 
"  I  am  merely  the  instrument  by  which  a  cruel  wrong  has 
been  found  out." 


FAIR  BUT  FALSE. 


339 


Lord  Saxon  laid  the  beautiful  unconscious  figure  on  the 
couch. 

"  Come  to  her,  Felicia,"  he  cried  excitedly ;  "  she  is  in 
a  dead  swoon  !  " 

Major  Esmond  turned  to  Lord  Saxon  and  looked  straight 
into  his  face. 

"  It  is  natural,"  he  said,  "  that,  loving  this  lady,  you 
should  espouse  her  cause  ;  but  your  prejudice  should  not 
blind  you  to  the  claims  of  simple  justice.  Miss  Gordon  is 
bound  to  give  up  all  in  favor  of  the  true  Lady  Jesmond,  but 
not  to  a  fraudulent  stranger.  I  should  like  to  see  the  child," 
he  continued,  as  if  expecting  that  the  fraud  had  extended 
even  to  the  substitution  of  another  child  for  Paul's. 

I  rang  the  bell,  standing  before  Lady  Jesmond  to  screen 
her  from  observation,  and  told  the  servant  who  appeared  to 
tell  Mrs.  Rivers  to  bring  down  little  Sir  Guy  to  the  drawing- 
room  without  delay. 

"  It  is  hardly  a  scene  for  a  servant  to  witness,"  said  the 
major. 

But  I  assured  him  that  the  nurse  was  a  confidential  servant 
whom  Lady  Jesmond  trusted  implicitly. 

I  shall  never  forget  Mrs.  Rivers's  face  when  she  entered 
the  room.  She  looked  from  one  to  another  with  wild  question- 
ing eyes,  and  an  anticipation  of  coming  danger  seemed  to 
come  to  her. 

Major  Esmond  took  the  child  from  her  arms  and  looked 
critically  at  the  boy's  pretty  features. 

"  I  know  not,"  he  said,  after  a  pause,  "  where  the  mother 
may  be,  but  this  is  certainly  Paul  Jesmond's  child." 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?'"  cried  Mrs.  Rivers.  "  What  is 
wrong  ?  " 

And  on  her  face  I  noticed  the  same  deadly  fear  and  dis- 
may that  had  taken  possession  of  Lady  Jesmond. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

"  WHAT  is  wrong  ?  "  repeated  the  nurse.  "  Oh,  tell  me, 
for  Heaven's  sake  !  " 

"  She  may  be  able  to  throw  some  light  on  the  mystery," 
said  the  major.  "  She  came  here  with  the  lady,  and,  as  you 


BUT  FALSE. 

say  she  is  a  confidential  servant,  I  should  most  certainly  tell 
her  what  has  occurred." 

"  We  do  not  know  what  is  wrong  yet,"  I  said,  answering 
Mrs.  Rivers.  "  This  is  the  gentleman — Major  Esmond — in 
whose  house  Miss  Gabrielle  Fairfax  lived  in  India,  and  he 
has  come  to  see  her.  He  declares  this  lady  to  be  a  stranger 
to  him,  and  not  Lady  Jesmond  at  all." 

The  woman's  face,  as  she  listened,  assumed  a  livid  pallor, 
and  a  fierce  gleam  shone  in  her  dark  eyes. 

"  Who  dares  say  it  ?  "  she  cried.  "  Who  dare  utter  so  foul 
a  calumny  ? " 

"  I  do  ;  I  dare,"  said  the  major.  "  That  lady  is  no  more 
Gabrielle  Fairfax  than  you  are  !  I  know  Gabrielle  as  well 
as  I  do  my  own  children." 

The  old  nurse's  face  became  more  ghastly  white,  and  a 
violent  fit  of  trembling  came  over  her. 

"  Can  you  tell  us  anything  which  will  help  to  solve  the 
mystery  ?  "  asked  Lord  Saxon. 

"  There  is  no  mystery,  my  lord.  He  speaks  falsely — 
falsely  !  I  have  not  one  word  to  say.  Where  is  Lady  Jes- 
mond ?  " 

"  She  is  here,"  I  said,  moving  aside.     "  She  has  fainted." 

With  a  heart-rending  cry  the  woman  sprung  forward  and 
knelt  down  by  the  side  of  the  apparently  lifeless  body  on  the 
couch.  At  the  sound  Lady  Jesmond  languidly  opened  her 
eyes  and  murmured  something  which  did  not  reach  us. 

"  Hush,  my  dear,  hush  !  "  cried  the  nurse  ;  then,  turning 
to  us  with  anger  and  defiance,  she  added,  "  You  will  kill  her 
between  you  !  Who  dares  to  say  she  is  not  Paul  Jesmond's 
widow  and  the  mother  of  his  child  ?  " 

"  Nello,  Nello,"  cried  the  faint  voice,  "  I — I  will  tell  you  ! 
Send  them  all  away — all  away !  " 

"  Hush,  hush,  my  dear !  "  said  Mrs.  Rivers.  "  Lie  still !  " 
And  again  she  turned  her  face  to  us,  as  she  continued,  "  She 
does  not  know  what  she  is  saying.  You  will  drive  her  mad 
between  you ! " 

"  Send  them  all  away,  Nello !  I  want  to  tell  you — only 
you  !  "  she  cried. 

"  Take  the  child  to  the  nursery,  Mrs.  Rivers,"  said  Lord 
Saxon. 

But  the  woman  refused  to  go. 

"  I  will  not  leave  her,"  she  declared.  "  She  is  not  safe 
"?"h  any  one  but  me." 


FAIR  BUT  FALSE. 


341 


"  Go,"  said  the  faint  weak  voice. 

And,  weeping  bitter  tears,  the  nurse  obeyed  the  command 
of  her  mistress,  and  left  the  room. 

"  Wait  for  me  in  the  dining-room,  Major  Esmond,"  said 
Lord  Saxon.  "  I  should  like  to  see  you  again  before  you  go." 

"  I  will,"  answered  the  major. 

And  then,  with  a  slight  gesture,  Lord  Saxon  made  known 
to  me  his  wish  that  I  should  remain. 

"  Speak  out,  Gabrielle,"  he  said.  "  Of  all  people  in  the 
world,  you  need  fear  me  the  least,  because  I  love  you  the 
best.  Speak  to  me  fearlessly — tell  me  all." 

"  Oh,  Nello,  Nello,  nothing  that  I  can  say  will  make  any 
difference  to  you — to  us  ?  " 

But  I  remarked  that  he  did  not  answer  the  question.  So 
did  she,  for  she  stretched  out  her  trembling  arms  to  him. 

"  Nello,  I  will  tell  you  all." 

She  rose  from  the  couch,  and  flung  herself  imploringly 
upon  her  knees  at  his  feet.  She  caught  his  hand  in  hers,  and 
raised  her  agonized  face  to  his.  I  pray  Heaven  I  may  never 
witness  another  such  scene.  Her  golden  hair  hung  like  a 
glittering  veil  over  her  shoulders,  and  her  fair  loveliness  was 
shadowed  by  a  storm  of  agonized  despair. 

"  Look  at  me,  Nello  !  "  she  cried,  with  passionate  fervor. 
"  Do  not  turn  your  eyes  from  me  !  You  will  not  love  me  less 
when  I  confess  that  I  am  a  most  miserable  sinner.  Throw 
your  arms  round  me,  Nello  ;  take  me  to  your  breast.  I  can- 
not speak  when  I  am  so  far  from  you." 

But  he  did  not  move. 

"  Nello  !  "  she  cried  again,  and  the  piteous  agony  in  her 
voice  touched  my  heart. 

"  Speak  to  me  freely,  Gabrielle,"  he  said.  "  At  present 
I  cannot  understand  what  all  this  means  ;  "  and,  as  he  spoke, 
he  laid  his  hand  on  her  head. 

"  I  am  a  miserable  sinner,"  she  sobbed,  after  a  momentary 
pause  ;  "  but  I  did  not  think  of  the  wickedness  of  the  act 
and  I  was  persuaded.  I  saw  the  enormity  of  my  crime  after- 
ward ;  but  it  was  too  late  to  withdraw  then." 

"  Tell  me,"  he  said — and  I  noticed  the  change  in  his  voice 
— "  is  what  the  major  said  true  ?  Are  you  Lady  Jesmond  ? " 

"  No,"  she  answered,  "  I  am  not.  Oh,  forgive  me,  Nello, 
forgive  me  !  If  I  had  known  that  I  should  see  you  and  love 
you,  I  would  never  have  done  it.  Oh,  forgive  me  1 " 


FAIR  BUT  FALSE. 

"Will  you  tell  me  who  you  are  ?"  he  asked  gently,  but 
firmly. 

"  I  am  Lady  Jesmond's  sister,"  she  replied.  "  My  name 
is  Alice,  not  Gabrielle."  She  must  have  caught  sight  of  his 
face  then,  for  her  voice  died  in  a  wail  of  deep  despair.  "  You 
must  forgive  me,  Nello,  you  must,"  she  persisted,  "or  I  shall 
die  here  at  your  feet !  If  I  had  known  that  I  should  meet 
you,  if  I  had  known  that  the  time  was  coming  when  I  should 
see  you  and  love  you,  I  would  rather  have  died  than  be 
guilty  of  this  sin.  Great  Heaven,  there  is  no  pity  in  your 
face,  no  love  in  your  eyes  !  Your  heart  is  growing  hard  and 
cold  toward  me.  Let  me  die — let  me  die ! " 

She  wrenched  her  hands  from  his,  and  flung  herself  to 
the  ground  in  a  frenzy  of  madness.  I  went  to  her,  for  I 
could  not  bear  the  sight  of  her  despair. 

"  Gabrielle,"  I  said,  do  not  weep  so  bitterly."  Then  my 
heart  aching  with  anguish  at  the  sight  of  the  beautiful  wreck 
before  me,  I  turned  to  him.  "  Oh,  Lord  Saxon,  be  kind  to 
her !  She  loves  you  so  well,  and  she  is  so  unhappy.  Be 
hind  to  her." 

"  Tell  me  all,"  Lord  Saxon  again  requested. 

"  I  cannot,"  she  answered  ;  "  my  strength  fails  me 
Felicia,  fetch  my  mother ;  she  will  tell  you  all." 

"  Your  mother,  Gabrielle  ?     She  is  not  here,"  I  said. 

"  Ah,  I  forgot  you  do  not  know !  Mrs.  Rivers  is  my 
mother." 

"  Mrs.  Rivers  your  mother  ! "  cried  Lord  Saxon,  in  un- 
disguised astonishment.  "  More  deceit,  more  intrigue  !  Oh 
Gabrielle,  whom  I  believed  to  be  true  as  I  found  you  fair, 
how  could  you  stoop  so  low  ?  " 

The  only  answer  to  this  reproach  was  a  moan  of  despair. 

"  There  is  a  terrible  scene  below,  Mrs.  Rivers,"  I  said, 
entering  the  nurse's  room.  "Will  you  come  down,  please  ? 
Lady  Jesmond  wants  you." 

She  seemed  to  fly  rather  than  walk ;  and  I  hastened 
after  her.  Ah,  the  mother's  instinct,  the  mother's  love  ! 
She  thought  neither  of  Lord  Saxon  nor  of  me,  but  went  to 
the  girl  who  lay  upon  the  carpet,  crushed  and  helpless. 

"  My  darling,  what  is  it  ? "  she  cried.  For  a  moment  the 
burning  face  of  the  unhappy  girl  appeared  through  the  veil 
of  loosened  hair. 


FAIR  BUT  FALSE. 


343 


"  Mother,"  she  said,"  tell  them  all !  Do  not  keep  one 
word  back — tell  them  all !  " 

The  nurse  looked  up  with  a  troubled  frightened  face. 

"  You  know — "  she  said. 

"  We  know  that  this  lady  is  not  Lady  Jesmond,"  Lord 
Saxon  broke  in,  and  we  also  know  that  you  are  Mrs.  Fair- 
fax." 

"  It  is  all  discovered  then  !  "  she  said  despairingly.  "  Oh, 
my  beautiful  Alice,  it  would  never  have  been  done  but  for 
me — guilty,  miserable  me  !  " 

She  turned  to  Lord  Saxon,  and  kept  her  eyes  fixed  on 
his  face  the  whole  time  that  she  spoke. 

"  My  lord,"  she  went  on,  "you  have  judged  her  already. 
I  read  your  judgment  in  your  eyes.  Suspend  it  until  you 
have  heard  what  I  have  to  tell." 

He  bowed. 

"  I  must  speak  of  myself  for  a  few  minutes,"  she  said. 
"  My  husband  was  a  poor  hard-working  curate  who  left  me, 
when  he  died,  with  two  little  daughters,  Gabrielle  and  Alice. 
We  lived  at  Wavertree  ;  and  after  his  death  I  supported  my- 
self and  my  children  by  giving  music-lessons  there.  I  say 
'  supported  ; '  but  only  Heaven  knows  the  desperate  struggle 
I  maintained  to  bring  up  my  children  respectably,  I  never 
knew  until  recently  what  it  was  to  be  free  from  the  pinch  of 
poverty — poverty  all  the  more  bitter  because  it  has  been 
what  the  world  in  its  satire  calls  'genteel.'  Of  all  the  slow 
tortures  that  destroy  life  genteel  poverty  is  the  greatest. 
You,  my  lord,  who  have  never  known  want,  who  have  never 
felt  the  pangs  of  hunger,  you  do  not  know  the  trials  that  be-, 
set  those  who  have  to  battle  fiercely  for  their  daily  bread. 
My  children  were  good  and  beautiful.  They  were  both 
cleve  r ;  and  I  struggled  on  until  they  were  old  enough  to 
receive  educational  training.  I  denied  myself  food  in  order 
that  they  should  have  enough  to  eat.  Many  a  night,  my 
lord,  I  have  lain  awake  too  hungry  to  sleep  ;  but  they  knew 
no  hunger,  no  cold.  They  were  too  little  then. 

"  When  they  grew  older,  through  the  good  offices  of  a 
friend  of  mine,  since  dead,  I  found  a  home  for  them  in  a 
large  boarding-school  near  Paris,  where  they  both  received  an 
excellent  education  in  return  for  the  services  they  rendered. 

"  When  Gabrielle  was  about  seventeen,  she  had  an  offer 
of  a  situation  ip  India.  A  lady  going  thither  wanted  a  com- 


344 


FAIR  BUT  FALSE. 


panion  who  could  speak  French.  My  daughter  went  with  her ; 
and  afterward  she  went  to  live  as  a  governess  in  the  family  of 
Major  Esmond.  She  was  very  happy  there,  and  often  sent  me 
money  home.  Still  my  life  was  a  terrible  struggle,  and  few 
sun-rays  illumined  my  dreary  path.  I  had  to  rent  a  comfort- 
able house  and  dress  respectably,  or  I  should  have  lost  all 
my  pupils.  Think,  then,  what  news  it  was  to  me  when  I 
heard  that  my  daughter  was  to  marry  the  son  and  heir  of 
Sir  William  Jesmond,  although,  as  she  told  me,  the  marriage 
was  to  be  kept  secret.  Still  I  understood  all  the  advantages 
that  must  accrue  from  it." 

She  paused  for  a  few  minutes.     Lord  Saxon  did  not  stir  ; 
but  I  saw  traces  of  deep  emotion  on  his  face. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

"You  cannot  realize,"  continued  Mrs.  Fairfax,  "what 
that  marriage  meant  for  me  ;  it  meant  freedom  from  the  hor- 
rible grind  of  poverty,  which  had  already  almost  crushed  the 
life  from  me  ;  freedom  from  the  irksome  task  of  teaching  for 
a  miserable  pittance  ;  a  fair  provision  for  the  comforts  and 
necessities  of  life — for  I  knew  that  my  daughter  would  care 
for  me.  She  did.  I  believe  that  the  first  sum  of  money  her 
husband  gave  her  was  sent  to  me.  She  told  me  that  she 
would  be  able  to  do  more  for  me  after  a  time  ;  that,  when  she 
returned  to  England,  I  should  cease  to  work  ;  that  she  would 
settle  a  substantial  income  on  me;  and  that* at  last  I  should 
have  the  rest  so  long  withheld  from  me.  Think  of  my  delight 
at  the  glowing  prospect  opened  up  to  me  !  You  cannot 
realize  it,  you  who  have  never  known  want.  My  daughter 
begged  me  to  be  reticent  as  to  her  position  and  prospects, 
never  to  mention  her  marriage  even  to  my  dearest  friends ; 
and  I  never  did — not  even  to  poor  Alice,  her  sister  lying 
here,  my  poor  beautiful  Alice  !  " 

She  bent  down  and  kissed  the  colorless  face  half  hidden 
by  the  trembling  hands. 

"  Not  even  Alice  knew  then,"  she  reiterated,  as  though 
3peaking  to  herself.  "  When  the  little  heir  was  born,  my 


FAIR  BUT  FALSE. 


345 


daughter  wrote  to  me  again,  and  told  me  of  her  happiness, 
adding  that  the  proudest  moment  of  her  life  would  be  when 
she  placed  her  little  son  in  my  arms.  For  I  was  a  good 
mother  to  both  my  girls,  Lord  Saxon." 

He  bowed,  but  did  not  speak.  I  was  hoping  ihat  he 
would  say  a  few  words  to  comfort  her. 

"  All  this  time,"  she  went  on,  "my  daughter  Alice  was 
in  France.  She  had  found  an  excellent  situation  there,  and 
things  were  going  better  with  me.  Then  came  a  period  of 
disquiet.  Gabrielle  had  written  to  me  from  India  to  say 
that  her  husband  was  going  to  Faizabad  on  some  military 
business,  and  that  he  would  be  absent  for  three  months. 

"  The  next  letter  that  came  from  her  brought  the  news 
of  his  death,  and  that  she  was  coming  home  with  the  little 
heir  to  Jesmond  Dene.  I  well  remember  the  words  of  her 
letter — 

"  '  I  shall  come  home  to  you  for  a  few  days  first,  mother  ; 
my  heart  is  so  completely  broken  by  Paul's  death  that  I 
could  not  face  Jesmond  Dene  just  yet.' 

"  She  came  to  Wavertree,  bringing  with  her  no  servant — 
only  her  baby-boy ;  and  on  the  same  day  my  daughter  Alice 
returned  from  France.  For  the  first  time  since  they  were 
children,  I  had  them  together  under  my  roof.  Try  to  realize 
the  temptation,  Lord  Saxon,  and  you,  Miss  Gordon. 

"  We  were  there  in  my  house  quite  alone.  I  had  no  ser- 
vant, no  visitors  ;  few  of  my  pupils  came  to  my  home,  and 
none  of  them  knew  anything  of  my  daughters.  Lady  Jes- 
mond, the  child  in  whom  all  my  hopes  centered,  was  taken  ill 
and  died  quite  suddenly.  She  looked  very  ill  when  she  came, 
for  the  loss  of  her  husband  had  preyed  on  her  mind  and 
weakened  her  already  debilitated  constitution.  She  had 
never  been  strong  ;  she  was  fragile  and  delicate — unlike  my 
beautiful  Alice,  who  was  always  healthy.  Poor  Gabrielle  died 
of  inflammation  of  the  lungs.  We  called  in  a  croctor ;  but 
remembering  all  she  had  said  about  secrecy,  I  did  not  men- 
tion her  name  before  him;  he  knew  only  that  she  was  my 
daughter.  Neither  he  nor  I  anticipated  a  serious  termination 
to  her  illness,  or  what  was  done  afterward  would  have  been 
impossible  ;  but  she  died  quite  suddenly  in  the  middle  of  the 
night,  when  Alice  and  I  were  in  the  house  alone.  I  was 


BUT  FALSE. 

terribly  distressed  because  of  her  loss  chiefly,  and  also  be- 
cause of  the  complete  shattering  of  all  my  hopes.  The  child 
might  live  and  succeed  to  Jesmond  Dene  ;  but  there  would 
be  no  provision  for  me.  If  my  daughter  had  lived,  I  should 
have  been  well  provided  for  ;  but  here  she  was  lying  dead  ! 
Poverty  and  work  still  stared  me  in  the  face  ;  and  I  was  so 
tired  !  An  idea — I  admit  thaf  it  was  a  wicked  one — flashed 
across  my  mind  showing  me  how  I  could  avert  the  calamity 
which  threatened  my  future  prospects.  No  one  knew  any- 
thing about  my  daughter  ;  no  one  knew  here  in  England 
which  was  Lady  Jesmond  and  which  was  Alice  Fairfax.  Why 
not  ask  the  living  child  to  take  the  dead  one's  place  ? 

"  No  one  could  ever  know  ;  it  would  hurt  no  one.  A 
widowed  Lady  Jesmond  was  traveling  from  India;  a  widowed 
Lady  Jesmond  was  expected  at  Jesmond  Dene.  They  were 
both  my  children,  and,  as  it  could  work  no  injury  to  any  one, 
why  should  not  the  one  pass  for  the  other  ? 

"  I  thought  it  all  over  carefully,  and  viewed  it  in  all  its 
bearings.  There  seemed  to  me  little  harm  in  it  ;  and  I 
was  so  tired  of  poverty,  so  tired  of  work !  The  only 
danger  I  could  foresee  was  the  very  one  that  has 
occurred — the  coming  home  of  some  one  from  India 
who  had  known  Gabrielle  there  ;  but  the  chances  of 
such  a  thing  happening  appeared  to  me  very  small.  She 
had  known  but  few  people,  and  those  few  were  not  likely  to 
seek  her  out  in  England ;  and,  if  they  should  happen  to  do 
so,  she  could  easily  evade  them.  There  did  not  seem  to  me 
to  be  the  least  danger  of  my  plans  being  upset  in  that 
manner.  I  pondered  the  matter  in  my  mind,  and  then  I 
broached  it  to  Alice. 

"  At  first — believe  me,  Lord  Saxon — she  most  positively 
refused  to  agree  to  my  schem?.  She  said  that  it  would  be 
false,  dishonorable,  mean — that  she  would  never  consent  to 
such  a  deception.  But  I  talked  to  her,  and  pointed  out  that, 
with  her  beauty  and  her  position  as  Lady  Jesmond,  she 
would  be  able  to  make  a  brilliant  marriage.  I  persuaded  her; 
let  the  blame  and  the  punishment  fall  on  me — I  deserve  it. 

'  I  took  my  living  daughter  to  the  side  of  the  dead  one. 
I  drew  from  my  dead  child's  hand  her  wedding  ring  and 
diamond  keeper,  and  I  placed  them  on  Alice's  hand. 

"'It is  Alice  Fairfax  who  lies  dead  there,'  I  said:  '  and 
you  are  Gabrielle,  Lady  Jesmond,  I  took  the  boy  and 


FAIR  BUT  FALSE.  347 

placed  him  in  her  arms.  '  Henceforth/  I  said  to  her,  '  this 
is  your  child.' 

"  I  told  the  little  fellow  to  call  her  '  mamma  ;'  but  I  was 
much  troubled  by  the  look  in  the  child's  eyes.  If  he  could 
have  spoken,  he  would  have  said  plainly,  '  This  is  not  my 
mamma  ;  she  has  gone  away  !'  But  he  was  too  young  to 
understand  ;  nevertheless,  whenever  he  calls  Alice  '  mamma,' 
there  is  a  questioning  look  in  his  eyes." 

I  wondered  that  I  had  not  thought  of  this  before,  for  I 
had  often  heard  the  cry  of  the  child  for  his  mother  and  seen 
his  strange  inquiring  gaze.  This  confession  made  clear  to 
me  many  of  the  mysterious  things  I  had  observed  during  the 
past  twelve  months. 

"  We  had  no  trouble  in  successfully  carrying  on  the 
deception,"  Mrs.  Fairfax  continued.  "  No  one  suspected 
what  had  been  done.  Alice  took  possession  of  Gabrielle's 
trunks,  of  her  clothes,  her  jewels,  her  papers,  of  the  package 
left  by  Captain  Jesmond  to  be  given  to  his  wife.  Who  was 
there  to  say  that  she  was  not  Gabrielle,  Lady  Jesmond  ?  The 
doctor's  certificate  was  made  out  in  the  name  of  Alice  Fair- 
fax, and  in  Wavertree  churchyard  the  name  of  Alice  Fairfax 
is  engraved  on  my  dead  daughter's  tombstone. 

"  But  when  all  was  arranged,  my  daughter  grew  nervous. 
'It  is  a  fraud  and  a  deception,'  she  declared ;  and  more 
than  once  she  told  me  that  she  had  not  the  courage  to  carry 
it  through.  She  consented  to  represent  her  sister  only  on 
condition  that  I  would  come  with  her  and  act  as  nurse  to 
the  child.  Then,  and  not  until  then,  did  she  consent  to  come. 
She  made  me  promise  that  I  would  live  with  her  always  ;  and 
we  have  been  very  happy.  Oh.  my  beautiful  Alice,  have  1 
crushed  you  by  my  miserable  folly  ?  " 

Her  voice  died  away  in  bitter  sobs  as  she  knelt  by  her 
daughter's  side  ;  and  she  who  had  for  so  long  been  known 
as  Lady  Jesmond  opened  her  arms  and  pillowed  the  gray 
head  upon  her  bosom. 

"  Never  mind,  mother,"  she  said.  "  Do  not  cry  so,  dear; 
all  will  be  well  yet.  Nello  will  forgive  me." 

But  I  knew,  from  the  stern  pained  expression  on  his  face, 
that  he  would  never  take  her  to  his  heart  again.  He  was  "  a 
worshiper  of  beauty,  and  a  dreamer  of  dreams  ;  "  but  he  was 
a  man  who  valued  honor  and  integrity,  who  could  not  toler- 


34g  FAIR  BUT  FALSE, 

ate  deceit.  I  knew  her  doom,  poor  girl,  before  he  pro- 
nounced it. 

"  You  will  forgive  us  both,  my  lord  ?  "  said  the  weeping 
mother. 

"  Your  sin  was  not  against  me,"  he  replied  gravely.  "  You 
have  wronged  Miss  Gordon  more  than  you  have  wronged  me." 

"  Felicia,  you  will  forgive  me  ? "  pleaded  Alice  Fairfax. 

I  stooped  down  and  kissed  the  lips  that  but  a  few  short 
hours  before  had  been  wreathed  with  smiles. 

"I  forgive  you,  dear,  with  all  my  heart,"  I  replied. 

"  You  have  always  been  good  to  me  Felicia,"  she  went 
on,  "  although  I  took  so  much  from  you." 

She  did  not  know — she  would  never  know — all  that  she 
had  taken,  or  all  that  I  had  lost. 

"  Felicia  has  forgiven  me,"  she  said,  in  a  trembling  voice. 
"  Nello,  you  will  not  refuse  me  pardon  ?  " 

"  Forgive  us,  my  lord  !  "  sobbed  Mrs  Fairfax  again. 

"  Not  only  do  I  forgive  you  entirely,"  said  Lord  Saxon, 
"  but  it  shall  be  my  care  and  my  pleasure  to  provide  for  your 
future,  Mrs.  Fairfax.  You  shall  know  want  no  more." 

She  turned  quickly,  and  kissed  his  hand. 

"  I  thank  you,  my  lord,"  she  said  gratefully ;  but  her 
daughter's  voice  interrupted  her  further  expression  of  thanks. 

"  Nello,  Nello,"  cried  the  unhappy  girl,  "  speak  to  me — 
think  of  me  !  " 

"  Will  you  leave  us  ?  "  he  said  to  Mrs.  Fairfax .  "  I  wish 
to  talk  to  your  daughter  for  a  short  time."'  Then,  noting  the 
violence  of  her  grief,  he  added,  "  Do  not  weep  so  bitterly. 
It  was  a  great  folly  — a  wretched  mistake  ;  but  it  is  too  late 
now  to  repair  it.  I  can  only  say  this — that  your  future  shall 
be  my  care.  Leave  me  with  your  daughter  now." 

And,  still  weeping  most  bitterly,  Mrs.  Fairfax  left  the 
room. 

Lord  Saxon  walked  over  to  Alice  Fairfax,  and  stood  by 
her  side,  gravely  looking  down  at  the  face  he  had  so  often 
smiled  upon. 

"  Alice  !  "  he  said.  "  It  seems  strange  to  give  you  that 
name." 

She  looked  up  to  him  with  eager  passionate  eyes. 

"  Shall  I  never  be  '  Gabrielle'  to  you  again  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  No — never  more,"  he  answered  gravely.  "  The  name 
was  not  yours,  and  you  should  not  have  borne  it." 


FAIR  BUT  FALSE, 


349 


"  Oh,  Nello,  Nello,  if  you  will  not  forgive  me,  kill  me  ! 
I  cannot  live  witnout  you  !  "  she  cried. 

"  It  is  no  question  of  forgiveness,"  he  said  coldly  ;  "  my 
dear,  beautiful  as  you  are,  and  dearly  as  I  love  you,  we  must 
part." 


CHAPTER   XIX. 

WHEN  Alice  heard  Lord  Saxon's  words — and  they  sounded 
with  terrible  distinctness  in  the  quiet  room — she  started  with 
a  faint  cry,  and  then  fell  back  white  and  helpless.  After  a  few 
moments  she  stood  up,  having  recoved  her  composure. 

"  You  cannot  mean  that,  Nello  !  "  she  cried.  "  You  can- 
not leave  me  ;  we  cannot  part !  I  am  your  promised  wife. 
Look  at  me,"  she  continued,  in  frenzied  despair — "  look  into 
the  face  that  you  have  found  so  fair,  and  tell  me  that  your 
love  is  still  mine  !  You  must  not  leave  me  to  desolation  and 
death  !  Look  at  me  whom  you  have  professed  to  love,  and 
whisper  your  forgiveness.  Nello,  would  you  plunge  a  dagger 
into  my  heart  ?  " 

"  Need  you  ask,  Alice  ?  "  he  answered. 

"  Well,  you  will  kill  me  far  more  cruelly  if  you  leave  me 
bereft  of  your  love,"  she  said.  "  Oh,  Nello,  Nello,  if  you 
must  send  me  from  you,  kill  me  here  and  now  !  I  would 
rather  die  by  your  hand  than  receive  life  from  another." 

A  simple  dignity,  such  as  I  had  not  seen  before,  came  to 
him  now. 

"  My  dear,"  he  said,  in  gentle  yet  firm  tones,  "you  must 
see  that  it  is  impossible  I  can  ever  marry  you.  Your  beauty 
took  me  by  storm  and  I  gave  you  as  deep  and  passionate  love 
as  man  ever  gave  to  woman.  It  came  to  me  like  a  vision  of 
perfect  bliss  ;  it  died  when  I  found  that  you  had  been  to  me 
a  living  lie.  I  would  have  married  you  had  you  been  poor 
as  the  beggar-girl  whom  King  Cophetua  loved ;  I  would  have 
married  you  had  your  beauty  been  marred  by  burn  or  scar. 
But  you  have  on  your  soul  a  stain  so  horrible  to  me  that  your 
beauty  could  never  hide  it  from  my  eyes." 

With  a  cry  to  Heaven  for  pity,  she  again  sunk  upon  the 
couch,  whilst  Lord  Saxon  went  on,  in  a  grave  sad  voice — 

"  Do  not  think  me  harsh — do  not  think  that  I  judge  you 


35° 


FAIR  BUT  FALSE. 


from  a  pinnacle  of  self-complacent  goodness.  I  humble  my- 
self before  Heaven  for  my  many  faults  and  sins  while  I  speak 
to  you.  There  are  transgressions  much  greater  than  yours 
in  the  eyes  of  the  world  which  I  could  more  easily  have  for- 
given ;  but  a  lie  has  always  been  to  me  the  thing  most  hate- 
ful on  earth.  Had  you  told  me  all,"  he  went  on,  "  when  I 
first  declared  my  love  for  you — had  you  trusted  to  my  affec- 
tion, and  shown  me  that,  after  all,  a  love  of  truth  reigned  in 
your  soul,  I  would  have  made  you  my  wife.  But  the  lie  you 
have  acted  and  lived  has  been  found  out  by  another.  I 
never  before  appreciated,"  he  added,  "  the  moral  beauty  of 
a  woman.  Beauty  pales  before  the  grandeur  of  nobility  of 
soul,  even  as  the  twinkling  stars  are  outshone  by  the  sun  at 
noonday." 

I  could  listen  to  no  more,  but  stood  up  to  defend  the 
beautiful  yet  unhappy  woman  who  was  writhing  beneath  the 
words  of  contempt  that  he  poured  forth. 

"  Do  not  be  so  terribly  hard,  so  bitterly  cruel,  Lord 
Saxon  ! "  I  cried.  "  You  may  need  mercy  yourself  some 
day.  If  she  has  sinned,  she  suffers." 

"  And  I  suffer,"  he  returned.  "  My  life  is  as  hopelessly 
shattered  as  is  hers.  I  have  loved,  not  a  real,  but  an  ideal 
woman  whose  soul,  I  believed,  was  clear  as  crystal.  The 
ideal  has  vanished  ;  and  the  reality  that  remains  is  but  the 
dross  of  common  humanity.  Oh,  Alice,  why,  when  you 
knew  I  loved  you — why  did  you  not  tell  me  yourself  of  the 
deceit  you  were  practicing  ?  Your  honesty  in  telling  me 
would  have  gone  far  toward  atoning  for  your  crime.  As  it 
is,  you  have  been  simply  found  out." 

She  rose  from  the  couch  and  approached  Lord  Saxon. 
The  pallor  of  death  was  on  her  face.  As  she  flung  herself 
upon  her  knees  at  his  feet  she  looked  at  him  with  a  pathetic 
yearning  in  her  eyes  which  I  shall  never  forget  to  the  day  of 
my  death. 

"  Forgive  me,  Nello,"  she  pleaded — and  her  voice  might 
have  touched  a  heart  of  stone — "  forgive  me  !  I  did  wrong 
and  I  have  suffered  throughout  the  whole  period  of  my  de- 
ception. Oh,  Nello,  forgive  me,  and  take  me  to  your  heart ! 
I  will  be  such  a  faithful  wife  to  you — all  the  more  faithful 
and  truthful  because  I  have  deceived  you.  Nello,  never 
again  in  this  world  shall  my  lips  open  to  utter  one  false  word 
— never  again  !  " 


FAIR  BUT  FALSE. 


351 


"  My  dear,"  he  said,  "  you  only  torture  yourself  and  me. 
The  soul  has  gone  from  my  love ;  there  is  but  the  corpse  of 
it  left — nothing  can  reanimate  it,  I  must  be  able  to  look  up  to 
the  woman  I  take  for  a  wife,  to  honor  and  reverence  her. 
How  could  I  reverence  you  when  I  know  you  to  have  com- 
mitted a  fraud  ?  I  will  befriend  you,  I  will  take  care  of  you  ; 
but  my  love  is  dead." 

"  Felicia,"  she  cried,  "  plead  for  me  !  If  he  leaves  me 
thus,  I  shall  die  !  "  The  tears  were  raining  down  her  face, 
and  her  anguish  was  pitiable  to  see.  "  Plead  for  me,  Felicia ; 
he  will  listen  to  you." 

"  Be  kinder  to  her,  Lord  Saxon,"  I  said.  "  Do  you  not 
see  that  you  are  breaking  her  heart  ?  And,  with  all  her  faults, 
you  ought  to  remember  that  she  has  loved  you  devotedly." 

"  She  has  indeed,"  he  answered,  with  a  sad  look  on  his 
face.  "  I  wish  it  were  all  different,  for  I  shall  never  know 
happiness  again." 

She  rose  and  put  both  her  arms  round  his  neck,  and 
whispered  words  of  love  to  him.  She  kissed  and  caressed 
his  face  with  her  little  white  trembling  hands. 

"  My  own  love,  my  dear  love.  She  murmured.  You 
could  not,  you  must  not,  leave  me  without  your  love." 

But  he  was  deaf  to  her  entreaties,  and  the  caresses  which 
but  a  few  hours  before  would  have  rilled  him  with  delight 
now  were  repugnant  to  him. 

"  I  repent,"  she  cried  to  him — "  oh,  Nello,  I  repent  so 
bitterly  !  Heaven  pities  a  repentant  sinner.  Cannot  you, 
beloved,  forgive  this  my  great  sin  ?  " 

"  I  do,"  he  replied.  "  It  is  not  that.  Rest  now,  and  to- 
morrow we  will  settle  your  future  and  your  mother's." 

"  Apart  from  you  ?  "  she  said. 

"  Yes — apart  from  me,  my  dear — quite  apart." 

"  To-morrow,  Nello  ?  "  she  questioned,  looking  at  him 
with  a  strange  smile.  "  You  will  settle  my  future  to- 
morrow ?  " 

"  Yes,  my  dear,"  he  said.     "  Now  rest." 

"  To  morrow  !  "  She  repeated,  with  the  same  strange 
brooding  smile  on  her  face.  "  Kiss  me  once  more,  Nello — 
once  more.  Forget  that  my  lips  have  lied  to  you,  and  re- 
member only  that  I  have  loved  you,  You  are  quite  sure  that 
nothing  can  induce  you  to  take  me  back  to  your  heart  again 
— you  are  quite  sure  ?  " 


352  FAIR  BUT  FALSE. 

"  I  am  quite  sure,"  he  replied,  slowly. 

"  Kiss  me  just  once  again  then,  and  say  good-by.  Oh, 
the  happy  hours  that  we  have  spent,  the  love  that  has  been  be- 
tween us,  Nello  !  Mine  was  a  great  fault — a  wicked  deed  ; 
but  you  must  always  remember  that  my  repentance  was  terri- 
ble. I  see  there  is  no  mercy  for  me.  You  have  none  : 
Heaven  will  have  none.  I  have  finished  !  But  you  will  say 
good-by,  Nello,  and  you  will  always  remember  my  terrible 
repentance  ?  " 

I  never  saw  such  yearning  love  and  tenderness  as  then 
came  into  Lord  Saxon's  face. 

Notwithstanding  all  his  shrinking  from  her,  she  went  up 
to  him  again.  There  was  no  supplication  in  her  voice  now  • 
a  quiet  resignation  had  come  over  her. 

"  Good-by,  Nello  !  "  she  said.  "  My  dear  lost  love,  good- 
by  !  and  then,  wringing  her  hands  with  a  gesture  of  utter 
despair,  she  went  from  the  room. 

"  Her  heart  will  break,"  I  said.  "  Oh,  Nello,  forgive  her  !  " 

"  Do  you  not  think  that  my  heart  is  torn  with  grief  and 
pain  ?  "  he  asked.  "  Felicia,  I  loved  her  so  well  that  I  think 
I  could  have  forgiven  her  anything  except  the  base  deceit  that 
she  has  been  guilty  of." 

Then  Lord  Saxon  joined  the  Major.  They  were  together 
for  half  an  hour  ;  and,  when  they  were  leaving,  the  Major 
expressed  to  me  his  great  sorrow  at  what  had  occurred.  He 
added  that,  in  the  distressing  circumstances,  he  would  not 
remain  in  the  house ;  and,  as  Lord  Saxon  had  asked  him  to 
stay  at  Dunroon,  he  had  decided  to  accept  his  hospitality. 

They  arranged  to  return  to  Jesmond  Dene  on  the  follow- 
ing afternoon,  and  meanwhile  they  would  telegraph  to  Mr. 
Benson  to  meet  them  without  delay.  Everything  was  to  be 
done  quietly,  so  as  to  give  Alice  as  little  pain  as  possible. 

*'  No  publicity  !  "  said  the  Major.  "  It  is  an  unfortunate 
business  altogether;  but  we  must  screen  her." 

When  I  had  said  good-night  to  them,  I  repaired  at  once 
to  aunt  Annette's  room.  I  did  not  tell  her  anything  of  what 
had  passed,  as  I  feared  it  would  greatly  excite  her  and  prob- 
ably retard  her  already  slow  recovery. 

Before  retiring  for  the  night,  I  went  to  Alice's  room  and 
asked  if  she  would  like  me  to  stay  with  her  for  an  hour  or 
two.  The  answer  came  in  a  strange  smothered  voice — "  No," 
she  would  rather  be  alone. 


FAIR  BUT  FALSE. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

TOWARD  four  in  the  morning  she  whom  I  had  known  as 
Gabrielle,  Lady  Jesmond,  entered  my  room.  Her  face  was 
quite  colorless,  and  her  long  golden  tresses  hung  loosely  over 
her  shoulders  ;  her  eyes  shone  with  a  light  that  was  almost 
terrible  in  its  brightness.  She  came  toward  me,  holding  a 
letter  in  her  hand. 

"  I  could  not  sleep,"  she  said,  "  and  I  have  written  this. 
Felicia,  you  have  been  kind  to  me  from  the  first ;  will  you 
render  me  a  great  service  ? " 

"  I  will  if  I  can,"  I  replied. 

"  You  can  if  you  will.  I  want  you  to  go  this  morning, 
and  with  your  own  hands  deliver  this  letter  to  Lord  Saxon. 
Do  not  trust  it  to  any  servant  or  friend  ;  give  it  direct  into 
his  own  hands." 

"  He  is  coming  here  this  afternoon,"  I  told  her,  thinking 
that  she  might  then  give  the  letter  to  him. 

"  I  want  him  to  read  it  at  once.  He  said  he  was  coming 
to  settle  my  future  to-day  ;  but  before  he  decides  upon  any- 
thing I  wish  him  to  read  this.  Will  you  take  it  to  him,  Feli- 
cia, early  this  morning  ?  You  can  drive  over  to  see  Lady 
Saxon,  and  then  place  it  in  his  hands." 

"  Do  you  wish  it  very  much  ? "  I  asked,  for  I  did  not  care 
for  the  commission. 

"  I  do  with  my  whole  heart,"  she  said.  "  Take  it,  Feli- 
cia, and  promise  me  that  he  shall  have  it  before  ten  o'clock." 

I  took  the  letter  from  her  hands  and  promised  to  fulfil 
her  wishes.  She  kissed  me,  but  her  face  was  deathly  cold, 
and  a  strange  wild  gleam  was  in  her  eyes.  She  went  to  the 
window  and  drew  aside  the  lace  hangings. 

"  The  sun  is  rising,''  she  said,  "  and  the  river  is  rushing 
madly  onward  to  the  sea." 

The  faint  light  of  the  dawn  was  on  her  face  as  she  left 
my  room,  and  those  were  the  last  words  she  ever  uttered  to 
me.  I  heard  her  close  the  door,  and  hoped  fervently  that 
she  might  rest  and  sleep. 

I  did  not  like  the   commission ;  still,  as  the  letter  was 


354 


FAIR  BUT  FALSE. 


evidently  of  great  importance,  and  I  had  promised,  I  went. 
It  was  just  ten  o'clock  when  I  reached  Dunroon,  and  placed 
it  in  Lord  Saxon's  hands.  He  was  surprised  to  see  me  so 
early,  and  seemed  in  no  mood  to  read  the  letter.  He  opened 
it  at  last.  As  he  read  his  face  grew  ghastly  white,  and  he 
staggered  back,  with  his  hand  pressed  to  his  brow.  He 
stood  for  some  few  minutes  stunned  and  bewildered,  then 
thrust  the  letter  into  my  hands. 

"  Read,  Felicia,"  he  cried — "  read  quickly,  quickly  ! " 
I  hurriedly  read  the  loving,  despairing,  passionate  words 
that  were  her  death-knell — words   all    blotted  with  tears — 
words  written  in  the  early  dawn  of  the  day  of  which  she  was 
not  to  see  the  end.     This  was  the  letter — 

"You  say,  Nello,  that  you  are  coming  to-day  to  settle  my 
future.  Dear,  I  shall  settle  it  myself.  There  is  no  mercy 
for  me  ;  there  is  none  on  earth — there  will  be  none  perhaps  in 
heaven  ;  I  expect  none.  And  yet  my  fault  was  not  so  great, 
not  so  terrible.  Such  as  it  was,  I  will  expiate  it  with  my  life  ; 
and  the  expiation  is  a  greater  sin  than  that  for  which  you  have 
left  me.  Now  that  I  have  known  the  warmth  and  sunshine 
of  your  love,  I  cannot  live  in  the  cold  and  the  darkness. 
Better  a  thousand  times  to  be  at  rest,  with  the  green  grass 
growing  over  me,  than  to  live  on  without  happiness,  without 
hope  ! 

"  This  will  be  my  repentance,  Nello.  I  shall  walk  out  in 
the  early  morning  to  the  river,  when  the  sun  is  shining.  You 
kno-.v  the  reach  where  two  days  since  you  stood  on  the  bank 
and  drew  the  dripping  water-lilies  ashore,  and  I — the  happiest 
woman  in  the  world — stood  by  your  side.  It  is  there  that  I 
shall  seek  rest.  This  is  my  repentance,  Nello.  I  shall  walk 
down  the  path  we  have  so  often  trodden  together,  knowing 
that  it  is  for  the  last  time.  As  I  take  my  last  walk  to  the 
river,  everything  will  say  good-by  to  me.  Yet  I  shall  not 
falter.  When  the  chill  water  kisses  my  face,  when  it 
seizes  me  and  carries  me  swiftly  along,  when  it  washes  my 
hair  and  bears  me,  a  deadly  burden,  on  its  breast,  then  my 
repentance  will  have  been  accomplished ;  and,  when  this 
letter  reaches  your  hands,  she  whom  you  have  loved  and 
spurned  will  be  past  reproach,  beyond  recall.  Of  all  that 
was  but  yesterday  filled  with  light  and  gladness  there  will  re- 
main to-day  nothing  but  a  dark  memory.  Nello,  my  beloved, 


FAIR  BUT  FALSE. 


355 


I  write  this  on  my  bended  knees,  and  on  this  sheet  have  fallen 
the  most  bitter  tears  woman  can  ever  shed.  I  lay  my  last 
kiss  on  this  paper,  for  I  know  that  you  must  touch  it.  I  shall 
die  as  I  have  lived,  loving  you.  When  I  reach  the  river's 
brink,  I  shall  love  you ;  when  the  chill  water — kinder  than 
you,  beloved — takes  me  into  its  embrace,  I  shall  still  love  you. 
"  Long  as  you  live,  Nello,  my  spirit  will  hover  near  you. 
During  the  sweet  summer  nights,  when  the  wind  is  sighing  in 
the  trees,  you  will  think  of  me.  When  you  walk  by  the  river 
and  hear  the  faint  sobbing  of  the  water,  you  will  give  a  thought 
to  her  who  preferred  to  die  rather  than  live  without  you.  You 
will  know  that  my  soul  was  not  all  false,  because  it  held  in 
it  so  true  a  love  for  you.  Through  the  sigh  of  the  summer 
wind,  through  the  wash  of  the  waves  on  the  shore,  my  voice 
will  come  to  you,  and  you  will  remember  that,  though  I 
sinned  greatly  my  repentance  was  terrible.  Beloved,  fare- 
well!" 

I  laid  down  the  pitiful  letter  blotted  with  tears,  and  for  a 
minute  we  looked  at  each  other  in  silent  horror.  Then  Lord 
Saxon,  rousing  himself  from  the  stupor  that  had  come  over 
him,  cried  out — 

"  For  Heaven's  sake  come  quickly  to  the  river,  Felicia  !  " 

But  the  river  was  far  away,  and  the  hour  long  past  for 
human  power  to  save  her  from  the  doom  that  she  had  sought. 
We  drove  rapidly  from  Dunroon  to  Jesmond  Dene,  accom- 
panied by  Major  Esmond,  and  Lord  Saxon  led  the  way  to 
the  reach. 

It  was  all  too  true.  There,  at  the  spot  indicated  in  her 
letter,  she  lay,  her  face  upraised  to  the  morning  sky  and  a 
smile  on  her  lips,  as  though  she  had  found  the  water  kinder 
than  her  lover's  closed  arms,  and  death  sweeter  than  life. 

Her  body  was  speedily  recovered  from  its  cruel  resting- 
place,  and  conveyed  to  the  Hall. 

Lady  Saxon  and  her  son,  Major  Esmond  and  myself  held 
a  council  that  same  afternoon,  and  we  decided  that  the  last 
act  of  kindness  we  could  show  to  her  memory  would  be  to 
keep  her  story  of  duplicity  and  the  cause  of  her  death  secret 
from  the  world. 

There  was  terrible  dismay  and  consternation  throughout 
the  district  when  it  became  known  that  the  beautiful  Lady 
Jesmond  had  been  found  drowned,  Of  course  it  was  an  a~ci- 


356  FAIR  BUT  FALSE. 

dent.  Many  people  thought  that  she  had  been  trying  to 
reach  the  water-lilies,  and  so  had  fallen  in.  In  the  first  wild 
moments  of  her  great  anguish  we  were  afraid  that  Mrs.  Fair- 
fax would  reveal  the  secret  which  we  all  hoped  would  be  buried 
with  the  remains  of  the  unfortunate  girl.  Fortunately  she 
did  not  disclose  the  truth.  We  were  compelled  to  tell  Mr. 
Benson  everything  ;  and,  to  my  astonishment,  he  did  not 
seem  greatly  surprised.  He  suggested  that  Mrs.  Fairfax 
should  continue  to  have  charge  of  the  child  until  he  was  a  few 
years  older,  and  that  afterward  she  should  be  provided  for  on 
the  estate. 

Lady  Jesmond's  funeral  will  not  soon  be  forgotten.  It 
was  attended  by  rich  and  poor,  and  there  was  no  one  who  did 
not  regret  and  grieve  over  the  fair  young  life  so  abruptly  and, 
as  it  seemed,  so  cruelly  cut  short. 

Lord  Saxon  was  there  as  chief  mourner.  The  vast  assem- 
blage of  spectators,  beholding  his  white  set  face,  little 
dreamed  of  the  tragedy  in  which  he  had  shared. 

"  May  heaven  pardon  me  if  I  was  too  hard  upon  her  !  " 
he  said  to  me,  as  we  stood  together  after  the  funeral. 

By  the  end  of  July  a  calm  that  was  almost  painful  had 
settled  over  Jesmond  Dene.  The  grass  had  grown  on  Alice's 
newly-made  grave,  and  people  wondered  why  it  was  always 
surrounded  by  beautiful  flowers,  yet  never  had  a  head- 
stone. 

There  was  a  calm  too  at  Dunroon  ;  for  its  master  had 
gone  away,  and  his  mother  believed  that  he  would  never  re- 
turn. 

He  had  suffered  terribly  during  the  recent  trying  days — 
so  much  so  that  he  was  a  changed  man.  He  regretted  hav- 
ing spoken  so  bitterly  to  the  erring  woman,  and  that  he  had 
not  been  more  patient.  He  felt  that  he  ought  to  have  known 
what  she  mean*  when  she  said  so  strangely,  "  To-morrow  !  " 
and  he  blamf  d  himself  for  not  at  the  time  realizing  all  that 
her  words  pr  /tended  and  taking  steps  to  frustrate  her  design. 
He  did  not  forget  her ;  and  for  years  his  life  was  imbittered 
and  darkened  by  the  tragedy  in  which  he  had  played  so  con- 
spicuous a  part. 

Meanwhile  little  Guy  grew  and  prospered.  At  Mr.  Ben- 
son's solicitation  I  remained  at  Jesmond  Hall  to  superintend 
the  house  and  take  charge  of  the  child.  My  aunt  Annette 
died  without  ever  knowing  the  whole  truth  ;  and  I  took  every 


FATR  BUT  FALSE. 


357 


care  of  the  unfortunate  woman  on  whose  shoulders  the  re- 
sponsibility for  this  sad  tragedy  rested. 

*  *  *  #  #  #  # 

Six  years  afterward,  when  every  one  had  ceased  to  expect 
him,  Lord  Saxon  came  home.  It  was  in  June,  and  the  night- 
ingales had  begun  to  sing.  He  asked  me  to  walk  with  him 
to  hear  them  ;  and  where  he  had  lingered  when  he  first  kissed 
me  and  lovingly  whispered  my  name  we  now  stood  again. 
He  told  me  how  he  was  learning  to  love  me  when  that  fair 
but  frail  woman  came  between  us  and  snatched  his  very  soul 
away.  He  asked  me  to  trust  him  with  my  love  and  to  be  his 
wife ;  while  the  nightingales  sung  as  though  they  had  always 
known  how  my  story  must  end.  I  did  not  say  "  Yes,"  at 
once.  It  was  not  the  passionate  love  of  "  long  ago,"  but  the 
more  enduring  love  of  maturer  years,  that  I  gave  him.  We 
were  married  ;  and  I  am  now  Ladv  Saxon  of  Dunroon,  and 
the  Dowager  Lady  Saxon  was  overjoyed  at  the  realization  of 
her  long-deferred  hopes.  Sooth  to  say,  I  worshiped  my 
husband  ,  and  we  are  very  happy  ;  but  the  words  of  that  ter- 
rible letter  haunt  him.  Nello  is  strong  and  brave  ;  but  there 
are  times  when  I  can  see  that  he  is  nervous,  and  those  times 
are  when  the  wind  sighs  amongst  the  trees  and  we  can  hear 
the  soft  low  sobbing  of  the  waves  on  the  shore. 

But  for  all  that  we  are  happy;  and  I  know  now  what  the 
nightingale  sings  about  in  June. 


THE    END. 


A     000127363     0 


